SF Books by Vaughn Heppner

  THE TRAVELER SERIES:

  Galactic Marine

  Sleeper Ship

  The Zero Stone

  The Institute

  Neanderthal Planet

  The Science of Mu

  The Atlantis Equation

  The Pyramid of Mars

  Battle Planet

  THE SOLDIER SERIES:

  The X-Ship

  Escape Vector

  Final Odyssey

  EXTINCTION WARS SERIES:

  Assault Troopers

  Planet Strike

  Star Viking

  Fortress Earth

  Target: Earth

  Visit VaughnHeppner.com for more information

  Battle Planet

  (Traveler #9)

  Vaughn Heppner

  Copyright © 2025 by the author.

  This book 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 or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

  -Prologue-

  Incredible, the witless Ophidians had finally figured out how to switch on the portal. It had taken them days of digging, fumbling, and testing. Three had electrocuted themselves in the deep chamber of the Dark Citadel on Mu trying to understand the technology.

  Those three had danced and flailed, hissing and collapsing onto the cavern floor before they died, spewing electricity, which caused the others to scatter in terror.

  Philip had recorded the event from his side of the portal, watching everything. Later, he’d shown the others, and they had all laughed and snorted at the reptilian antics—the low-brained buffoons.

  Philip was a five-foot, hundred-pound Homo habilis of the Institute, a hairy little hominid whose species had not died out 1.65 million years ago on Earth. He wasn’t sure anyone had been around then, but come on—his kind flourished in the here and now.

  It was amazing to Philip that big, dull Homo sapiens like Jake Bayard thought humans were the height of evolution. The over-muscled brutes never seemed to understand that humans used size and muscle, not brains, to solve most of their problems. And like most dullards, they thought themselves clever.

  Philip shook his head in bewilderment at human gullibility.

  Behind him, one of the guards cleared his throat.

  Philip looked up. Oh yes—the portal was energized. It was time to get this show on the road, as Earth humans liked to say.

  Philip touched the barrier with a hairy little finger, checked that everything was ready, gathered his resolve, and stepped in.

  In passing through the portal barrier, he traveled 57 light-years from the Institute planet to Mu, doing so in a heartbeat, if you could believe it.

  His boots clicked against the ancient stone floor of the cavern as he exited the crackling energy field. The transfer was smoother than expected. The rumors were true: the Institute’s technicians had finally perfected the stabilization algorithms after the disaster on Garm.

  Behind him, three Homo habilis guards also emerged, their phasors already drawn and ready to incinerate any over-hasty Ophidians.

  The air down here tasted of metallic ozone, which always lingered near active portal travel.

  They were in a large subterranean chamber lit by the portal’s shimmering field and smoky torches. Holding the torches were hissing Ophidians stepping back in alarm.

  A dozen Ophidians wore outrageous feather garments with leather-padded armor, Philip supposed. They were holding torches and long spears. Several raised their spears aggressively.

  “Wait,” Philip said.

  He knew his guards were ready to burn the tall barbarian warriors to ash. That might ruin everything, though.

  This first step demanded tact—the light touch, his specialty.

  Four of the towering Ophidians wore long red robes that trailed on the floor. Those robes hid their scaly, serpentine legs, torsos, and arms. They wore outrageous, ceremonial hats on their snakelike heads, showing wide mouths and slit pupils.

  The four were tech priests, the smart ones—if one could say such a thing about brutish, reptilian, Mu barbarians.

  Not so long ago—according to intelligence reports—the priests had been servants to the Ispazars. Philip believed Jake Bayard had slaughtered the dragon-like lizard-queens. That was the Traveler’s one true gift after all: he was a natural killer—in that he was actually dangerous under the right conditions.

  The barbarian Ophidians were hissing and making threatening gestures. Maybe he’d have to let his guards burn the cretins to atoms after all, as this seemed to be reaching a crisis point.

  Then the chief of the priests took control of the rabble by facing his warriors, raising his long arms, hissing and commanding, his cobra-like hood flaring up around his head.

  Philip wondered if the old boy practiced that in front of a mirror, he did it so well.

  The warriors were suitably cowed, looking at the chief priest, backing away, lowering their spears and falling silent.

  “Watch those idiots closely,” Philip said under his breath. “If it looks like one of them is going to hurl a spear at me, burn them all. Don’t stop until every Ophidian is dead, including the priests.”

  The guards grunted acknowledgment of the command.

  Philip had a plan, a deep and cunning one. It would gain him high rank for sure. Before this, he’d spoken to a lower-level Philip clone, one who had escaped from Garm some time ago. He’d downloaded the clone’s memories into his masterful brain, and was using the data to ensnare Jake Bayard, the Traveler.

  But to achieve the first step in the plan, he had to survive these Ophidian louts. It was a risk, a greater one than he cared to take, to tell the truth, but he had gained the go-ahead from the Original Philip, his clone master, who sat high on the council of the Traditionalists. They were on the ascent at the moment due to what had happened at the Chaunt System. The Accelerationists had lost many members in that fiasco. Bayard had been on Chaunt then: something to keep in mind when dealing with the killer.

  The Ophidian High Priest now turned to him, approaching slowly and with care. Instead of simple reptilian hunger shining in the slit pupils, Philip saw intelligence that evaluated him with cold, clinical calculation.

  The creature wisely stopped ten feet away and tilted his serpentine head. When he spoke, the words were hisses and guttural sounds that would have been meaningless to most.

  Philip nodded as his translator converted the alien speech into comprehensible sounds: “Small warm-bloods from the star-paths. You come through the singing stone that our diggers found in the deep place. Are you the sky-dwellers who rained fire from above?”

  “No,” Philip said, the translator turning his words into the Ophidian’s tongue. Did all barbarians have to speak like retards? It would seem so. “We are the enemies of your enemy.”

  The Institute had learned of Psi-Master Omilcar’s death on Atlantis after Jake Bayard had defeated the Ispazars on Sky Island. Even more importantly, the Institute had learned that Bayard had made the foolish mistake of transferring Sky Island away from the Old Forsaken Lands. The fool had left the Dark Citadel to the Ophidians. That was why Philip had dared to come here and attempt this plan.

  Now the High Priest’s slit pupils contracted. “Speak plainly, small one. What enemy do we share?”

  Philip composed himself so he wouldn’t burst out laughing at this ridiculous method of talking.

  “I speak about the human champion who slew your Viper King and destroyed the floating war-raft,” Philip said.

  A low hiss escaped from the Ophidian’s throat. “Yesss, the flame-bearer. He has made himself known to usss.”

  Yeah, by kicking your collective reptilian asses, Philip thought.

  He nodded gravely, though, saying, “My people have encountered this champion before. We understand his capabilities, his weaknesses, and predictable behaviors. More importantly to you, we have resources that could prove helpful in your cause.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Philip nodded. He didn’t expect the lout to know, but maybe this one could see farther than the others. At least he had the wit to admit he didn’t know—a first sign of emerging intelligence.

  “I can help you contact your kinfolk on Saddoth,” Philip said. “They have great understanding of the old sciences and numbers many times greater than yours.”

  The High Priest’s head swayed—the Ophidian equivalent of a nod. “Our legends speak of Saddoth, the Homeworld. But it is far away, out in the stars. We could never reach there.”

  Philip indicated the portal. “I can arrange for Saddoth advisors to come here. They could bring high-tech weapons and help you unite the tribes under a single banner. Perhaps through them you could work with the Draconian clans as well.”

  The High Priest stared at him with reptilian incomprehension.

  Philip refrained from rolling his eyes. Even though those of high intellect often found it hard to communicate with morons like this, he had the knack. It was one of his strengths, actually.

  “Listen,” Philip said, halting himself. He’d almost said, “Listen, you fool.” But that would have been the wrong method. He cleared his throat, beginning again. “The humans of Mu are
uniting against you. They will have many times your numbers and use it to fight you. You need allies, other reptilians to fight the mammalian warm-bloods.”

  “The puny Raptor Riders would never ally with us,” the High Priest said.

  “They would if the alternative was clan death at Jake Bayard’s hands. Those of Saddoth are students of battle. They could teach you how to achieve planetary victory.”

  The High Priest studied him, finally asking, “What is your price for these gifts?”

  Maybe not such a fool after all, Philip thought. Aloud, he said, “We want to know more about the Dark Citadel, and maybe take a few small items that catch our interest.”

  The High Priest was silent, his forked tongue flicking out and in, out and in. “The Saddoth-clans… they could truly send us battle-leaders and weapons?”

  “Within days of my establishing contact with them,” Philip said. “I’m sure they would bring weapons and war-knowledge that could turn your scattered bands into a planet-conquering force.”

  “You must hate the human champion,” the High Priest said.

  “He made an enemy of us,” Philip said. “That was a terrible mistake on his part. We make wonderful friends but awful enemies.”

  He hoped the old boy could understand the implied threat in that.

  “Yes,” the High Priest said. “Establish contact with the Saddoth-clans. If they confirm your words… all will be well. Then you can take your chosen items from here. I will keep the pact if the Saddoth-clans make me Chief of the Horde on Mu.”

  Aha, the old boy wanted supreme power, did he? That was fine. That would make him more moldable, in fact. He could always twist the ambitious. This was working out better than he’d expected.

  “We will keep our word,” Philip said, grinning like a chimpanzee, because everything was falling into place.

  The first phase of the plan was about to start. Arrogant Jake Bayard had no idea what was coming for him. Soon, the Traveler would learn why it was death to humiliate the First Folk.

  Philip’s eyes gleamed. His Original would surely heap honors on him for this. It was a subtle plan, but Philip was sure it would work, as he had studied the Traveler in depth. The key was Omilcar’s parting gift. Philip was sure he was right about that. He knew he’d better be right, as everything hinged on the last part.

  -1-

  My Draco Pterodactyl tensed its massive muscles, and I felt that familiar thrill as we prepared to launch.

  I sat in the pterodactyl saddle with a restraining belt tight around my waist. The supposedly prehistoric creature had red scales, a great head and beak with a triangular fin over the skull. It had leathery wings that stretched out an amazing sixty feet when unfurled, a lashing tail and great talons resting on the edge of Sky Island.

  Various harnesses were attached to its head and neck, with braided leather straps reaching back to a wheel before me, with one also attached to the saddle’s front. The straps were numbered one, two, three, and so on, in a clockwise fashion. Pulling on a strap moved the corresponding point on the harness. The trained pterodactyl knew then to go up, to the right, to the left, to dive and in other directions.

  It was an exhilarating sensation soaring in the sky on the back of such a mighty beast. Lest you think all people on the planet Mu rode such magnificent creatures, let me disabuse you of that notion.

  Only a select few dared such a feat. They were collectively known as the Pterodactyl Riders, and a rougher, more aggressive, and more violent group you couldn’t find on Mu.

  I’d first met them at Tsargol, a walled city strategically located along the main route out of the Old Forsaken Lands. A paltry thirty riders led by the intimidating Forkbeard had routed ten thousand Draconian Raptor Riders back then, causing the little dinosaur humanoids to flee in terror.

  The Pterodactyl Riders were nearly invulnerable from their saddles as they dropped blazing, alcohol-filled sacks, using them like Molotov cocktails to spread death and confusion among the nimble yet densely packed raptors.

  The best defense against such a tactic was to spread out and run in all directions—not to be where the pterodactyls were, in other words.

  Sometimes, when the fear was great enough upon the foe, a Pterodactyl Rider would swoop low and spear a Draconian in the back, using a fifteen-foot lance topped with a two-foot razor-sharp head of steel. Or the mighty talons would clutch the little Draconian and wrench the unfortunate warrior from the saddle.

  You see, those on Mu were ignorant of archery—bows and arrows were unknown to them. There were no longbows, shortbows, crossbows—no bows of any type on this planet. Interestingly, there were catapults of the onager type. These used twisted skeins to propel a wooden arm that stopped hard against a horizontal crossbeam. That hurled the rock or flaming ball in the cup at a city wall or other target. However, those of Mu did not have ballistae or giant crossbows that shot a javelin or a stone.

  I’ve often thought that a volley of javelins flung from lined up ballistae might have been employed with devastating effect against Pterodactyl Riders. In my opinion, the fact of their absence correspondently increased the power of the riders.

  Before my coming to Mu, all the riders had lived a Hell’s Angels existence. They preyed upon everyone, seizing gold, women, and wine, calling it tribute. They never slept inside but under the stars, living a riotous existence. They believed that Pterodactyl Law held sway wherever the shadow of their beasts touched. Yet even with such laws and customs, they had on occasion slain those who harmed humans or human civilization on Mu. Mostly, though, they were Viking-like raiders, living on plunder and laughing at the terror they caused.

  I’d changed a few of them into men with a U.S. Marine outlook—one of serving civilization and protecting the weak through hard fighting and deadly skill. The greatest of their leaders, Forkbeard, had become my closest friend. In doing that, however, he’d given up control of the greater number of riders.

  Around forty of them followed Forkbeard and hence me: the supposed, newly dubbed King of Sky Island.

  Due to unforeseen circumstances, I now needed the rest of those violent and incredibly deadly aerial crew.

  I pulled back on a strap, and my beast raised its head and gave a bone-rattling screech. Then he unfurled his wings, gathered himself, and leaped from the edge of Sky Island. For a heart-stopping moment, we plummeted, the ground rushing up. Then the mighty wings caught the air with a crack, and we soared through the dense atmosphere of Mu, its lighter gravity turning us into masters of the sky.

  Behind me, other screeches split the mid-morning air as Forkbeard and my handful of riders followed me.

  Forkbeard was a massive warrior, over seven feet tall, with a forked beard. He was the best fighter in my kingdom, my most loyal supporter, and despite his rough edges, the best leader of men I’d ever known. Unsurprisingly, his pterodactyl was even larger than mine.

  Soon, the giant with his horned helmet, leathers and furs pulled up alongside me.

  “It’s three days to the Bleached Peaks, Sire,” he shouted. “That’s if Karn the Red doesn’t gut you first.”

  I grinned, though my stomach tightened at the name. Karn was the new leader of the independent Pterodactyl Riders, the majority. A rumored 330 riders followed him, living the old way of doing whatever they pleased in the shadow of their pterodactyls.

  I’d decided to challenge Karn for leadership, as I needed all the Pterodactyl Riders to pull off my plan.

  War was coming to Mu, as I meant to annihilate a great reptilian host gathering in the Old Forsaken Lands. Suvorov’s spies had seen them, and the only logical place they could march was Tsargol, the Guardian of the Pass. There, I would smash the reptilian host and free humanity on Mu from Draconian and Ophidian depredations.

  Using the desert thermals to rise, occasionally flapping their wings to gain greater height, our pterodactyls began to soar to the north.

  Since returning to Mu after dealing with the Pyramid on Mars, and enlisting the help of Suvorov, formerly a Spetsnaz officer of the old Soviet Union, I’d united three city-states: Zangabal, Kovia, and Theros.

  Gaining mastery over them was quite a feat and story, one I might tell someday. It had taken thirteen months, the smashing of two Zero Stones and leading a slave revolt. After that, the peoples of the three cities had proclaimed allegiance to the King of Sky Island, me, Jake Bayard the Traveler.