by JMD Reid
“Attention,” bellowed the Vaarckthian man. Chaylene’s back snapped rigid, her hands at her sides. “Admiral, the recruits from the Xorlar.”
“Very good, Chief,” the admiral said, a jovial smile on his face as he eyed them. Medals decorated his blue coat. Chaylene guessed Ary would recognize them. “Welcome to Camp Chubris, your home for the next three months. I am Admiral Dhamen, the camp’s superintendent. As long as you follow instructions, your training shall go as smooth as polished alabaster. But we will not tolerate any infractions. Every Dawnsday is a rest day, so once you are settled in, you will have the remainder of the day to yourselves. You may visit the village of Shon as long as you are back by morning revelry. In town, we expect you to act with the decorum fitting of men and women of the Autonomy’s Navy. Captain.” He glanced at the female officer.
She took a step forward, eyeing them all with a fierce gaze. “I am Captain Vebrin. You do not want to be sent to my office. You will not enjoy the consequences.” Chaylene, and almost everyone else, flinched beneath the stone of her gaze. “You are here to be molded into the finest sailors, scouts, and marines in the skies. We do not tolerate drunken behavior, brawls, gambling, or general cavorting in camp. Do you understand me?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” Chaylene shouted with everyone else.
“The barracks are segregated. Women are on the top level. No man is allowed on their floor. Any man caught will receive twenty lashes and be placed in stocks. I will tolerate no molestation or harassment of any woman in camp. Do you understand me?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Those of you who are married and have brought your spouses shall be assigned a small cottage The rest will bunk in the communal barracks.”
The admiral gave a jovial nod. “Thank you, Captain. I have no doubts that you will all make the Autonomy proud with your service. The hope of our great nation rests on your young shoulders.” He flashed a salute, right hand to forehead.
Chaylene and the recruits saluted back.
“When I call your name, step forward,” said Captain Vebrin, unfolding a piece of parchment. “Brach, Veldith. Bthoovzigk, Estan.”
Ary’s new friend stepped forward, joining a skinny sailor recruit.
“Chamon, Inabron. Chemyin, Myar. Dhamin, Charlim. Jayne, Briaris.”
Ary stepped forward.
Chaylene’s heart beat faster.
“Jayne, Chaylene.”
Relief washed through her. She joined her husband.
“Mayen, Thevin. Myest, Yuvene. Rhech, Xoshia. Seyan, Yest. Shamin, Broath. Thenay, Xorale.”
The excitable Zori pressed beside Chaylene, grinning.
“And Thoav, Elech. You are assigned to the corvette Dauntless.”
Her emotions were so turbulent, Chaylene didn’t know if she felt disappointment or relief. Serving on another ship meant seeing little of Vel, but he needed to find a new love. There’ll be plenty of women to distract him on his own vessel.
~ * * ~
Vel watched Chaylene march away with the other recruits assigned to the Dauntless. His stomach twisted and disgust burned in his throat. A mad hope had sustained him on the voyage. He’d prayed to serve on the same ship as Chaylene. Instead of four years, he had three months, the duration of their training, to rescue her from Ary.
He had no idea how he’d do that.
She’d kept her distance on the ship, looking at him from afar. They traded secretive glances, hiding their blossoming love from her violent husband. Fear gripped her. She’s scared Ary will hurt her. And me. She’s protected us by letting him drag her into the hold to satiate his foul desires.
Ary always got what he wanted. Now they would share a cottage. Alone. Private. Every time Ary dragged Chaylene into the hold to enjoy her body, Vel’s stomach tried to rebel. The brute didn’t care about her feelings. He only wanted to rut in her body.
But it’s me she wants.
He could see it in her eyes. Felt it upon her lips.
Vel had listened to them. He’d heard Ary’s piggish grunts and her moans of fake passion. It twisted his stomach and set his blood burning all at the same time. The shame filled him as he pleasured himself, trying to picture her beneath him rather than the brute. And failing.
I have to save her. I can’t let him hurt her.
Vel’s eyes stayed locked on Chaylene as she departed with her monstrous husband. Vel’s heart stung. She didn’t even give him one last, longing look before she disappeared into the camp. She just marched next to the brute, cowed by his fists.
But hope stirred in Vel. Camp Chubris was so much larger than the Xorlar. On the ship, Chaylene could never escape the watchful eye of her husband. She’d lacked the freedom to approach Vel and act on her true desires. But here, he could find places for them to meet.
Where? He scanned the buildings, wondering at each one’s purpose. He’d have to learn the camp. Explore it until he could move comfortably through it. At night will be the safest. After training. I’ll be one more recruit enjoying his free time.
“Tloan, Veldon,” the captain barked in her shrill voice.
The sound of his name snapped Vel out of his plans. He blinked, trying to remember what was happening. A group of recruits stood before the captain. Swallowing, Vel joined them.
“You are assigned to the corvette Spirituous.”
As Vel marched off with his new shipmates, he studied his hunting grounds.
~ * * ~
Yruoujoa 17th, 399 VF (1960 SR)
Ary woke up to the sound of a loud horn trumpeting the next morning. Chaylene stirred next to him, groaning at revelry. She rubbed her eyes, sighing. “I guess it begins.”
“It’ll be fine,” Ary said and gave her a quick kiss on the lips.
The clerks had assigned Ary and Chaylene a small cottage made of pine board frames nailed to naked studs. It possessed one room almost devoid of furniture. A splintered-frame bed lay shoved in the corner, mattress stuffed with straw. Beside the bed, they had a chest of drawers, a poorly made table, and a pair of rickety chairs. A chipped washbasin sat on the table next to a pitcher.
Ary crawled out of bed and padded naked to the table. He filled the washbasin from the pitcher and splashed the refreshing water on his face. The cool liquid shocked the lingering sleep from his eyes.
“How can you just get out of bed?” Chaylene asked, a scowl on her lips. “I feel all knotted up.”
He shrugged. “You rise early on the farm. There’s always some work that needs doing.”
She grumbled and rolled out of bed. He admired her naked form, heat stirring in him. She grabbed a washcloth and dipped it in the water. “I’m all grungy.”
The night’s mugginess still lingered, leaving Chaylene feeling sticky. She used a washcloth to sponge the sweat off her body as Ary’s eyes fixed on her damp skin. He really didn’t want to leave their cabin this morning.
The washcloth hit him the face with a wet splat.
“You need to get ready,” Chaylene said. “So stop ogling your wife and get washing.”
“Sorry. You’re very distracting.”
She grinned. “I’m so sorry to distract my husband.”
“Oh, you don’t need to apologize. Feel free to distract me whenever you want.”
She laughed as she pulled on her linen undergarments. “Wash yourself, Ary. You stink. And if you don’t hurry, we’ll be late.”
He seized her hips, unable to help himself. After a week of sneaking into the stuffy hold, the desire to touch her, to hold her, to admire the delight of her curves wouldn’t leave him. He pulled her closer, and her protests were feeble.
Her lips were hot.
Ary was late to join the other marine recruits.
The seven others stood to attention on the parade ground in front of the barrack. A corvette sailed with a complement of ten marines not counting their sergeant. Two marines had yet to arrive at camp, their ships late. Nearby, the sailors formed far deeper ranks, and beyond them Chaylene jo
ined the two other scouts, dressed in her white linens and light-blue coat.
Despite that it was dawn not even an hour ago, Ary already sweated in his wool uniform. He buttoned up his red coat as he joined the formation. The wool made his electric charge itch to escape. Most of the time, he could ignore the tingle, but it was hard right after dressing.
“Thought you could be late to the ball, eh, Princess?” demanded a hulking Agerzak in the redcoat of a marine, his epaulets adorned with three white pips—a sergeant-major. A highly decorated sergeant-major. Medals festooned the front of his jacket. The Merit of Steadfast Commitment, a red arrowhead hanging from a yellow ribbon with a single, white pip, meant he’d taken a wound in battle. Two pips decorated the Merit of Dauntless Poise. The Navy had twice awarded him the second highest honor. The green fang hanging from a black ribbon declared him a Veteran of the Zzuk Aggression War. The man loomed in front of Ary, a thick, black beard bristling on his pale face.
“Sorry, sir,” Ary said, trying not to flinch.
“I’m no ‘sir,’” bellowed the man. His breath stank of rotten teeth. “You will address me as Sergeant-Major Gahneich, or simply as Sergeant-Major.”
“I understand, Sergeant-Major!”
His slanted, mud-brown eyes drilled into Ary’s. “Do you think you’re better than the rest of these recruits, Princess?”
“That’s not my name—”
“Did I ask for your name, Princess?”
“No, Sergeant-Major!” Ary’s anger stormed. He wanted to punch this man in the face. He never tolerated insults. But striking a senior NCO would carry stiff penalties.
Muscles tensed, limbs trembled.
“What did I ask you?” The man loomed, his bearded face begging for a bruise.
Control! Ary exhaled, and forced his fingers to unclench, banishing the tingle of his charge. “If I thought I was better than everyone else, Sergeant-Major.”
“Well, are you going to answer my storming question?”
“No, Sergeant-Major. I’m not better.”
“Then why did you think that you could arrive after them?”
“Just slow getting ready this morning, Sergeant-Major. Won’t happen again.”
“No it won’t. Start running along that fence”—he pointed to the white-washed barrier—“until I tell you to stop, Princess.”
Someone laughed, a deep rumbling chortle.
The Sergeant-Major descended on the offending recruit like a fly on dung. “Did I tell a joke?”
“No, Sergeant-Major,” the marine said, a broad face man fighting a smile. He stood taller and wider than Ary.
“Do I amuse you, Runt?”
“No, Sergeant-Major.”
“Then what’s so Theisseg-damned funny? Why don’t you tell the rest of us, Runt, so we all can laugh?”
“You just reminded me of the foreman at my parent’s plantation, Sergeant-Major. He’s a big, gruff Agerzak like you.”
“Ah, one of them stinking colonists from the Fringe, eh?” the Sergeant-Major sneered. “Like to look down on your Agerzak laborers?”
“No, Sergeant-Major.”
“I fought and bled for the damned Autonomy, Runt! If you ever laugh at me again, you will feel my fist shoved where it does not belong. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Sergeant-Major!”
“Good. You can join Princess on her run.”
The Sergeant-Major shot a glance at Ary. “And why aren’t you running, Princess? Are your dainty feet hurting in your boots?”
“No, Sergeant-Major,” Ary growled, fingers curling, fist forming.
Do it, snarled his anger.
“Then get running!”
Ary tore his gaze from the man, feet moving. He trimmed the rigging to channel anger’s wind where he wanted. It would not hurl him into disaster.
“Piece of sow’s dung,” muttered the big man as he fell in beside Ary. He flashed Ary a friendly grin set on a deep-brown, broad face. The man possessed almost no neck, his head perched on a wide-set of shoulders. Ary had a brawny build, but he felt like a midget beside the boar.
“The man’s lucky he’s a sergeant-major, or I’d introduce him to my fists,” Ary growled. “I don’t care how decorated he is, he’s got no cause insulting us.”
The big man laughed, deep and rumbling. “Indeed. Name’s Guts.”
“Really?” Ary grunted, booted toe striking a rock.
“Well, it’s Guthir, but only my ma calls me that.” Guts gave him a look. “You?”
“Ary.”
“Well, we’ll show him. Calling me ‘Runt.’ I could pick him up with one hand.”
“I’d love to see that.”
When they passed the scouts, Chaylene gave him a quick smile and a questioning look.
“She’s pretty,” Guts said.
Winds stirred. “She’s my wife.”
“Lucky man. My own girl cut my boat free of her docks when I joined up. She’s probably casting sow eyes at my brother. She wants the easy life of a plantation mistress.”
“Rough winds.”
“It’s life,” he shrugged. “That other scout is throwing us glances. She’s got a pretty face.”
“That’s Zori.” Sweat dripped to Ary’s brow, breathing growing deeper. “She’ll be . . . making friends with you. Likes her fellows big.”
Guts laughed again, the sound coming so easily like his lungs were full of mirth needing only the flimsiest excuse to escape. “See? Who needs Keina?”
“That’s a strange name.”
“She’s Agerzak. One of the local girls . . . back in Tlovis. Ambitions.” He took a breath, a sheen of sweat breaking across his face. “Didn’t want to remain a poor cotter’s daughter. Guess being the wife of a marine wasn’t enough improvement.”
Before the Zzuk invaded, the Autonomy conquered the two southern Agerzak Kingdoms—Ary couldn’t remember their names. Now everyone called the region the Fringe. The Autonomy granted land to any citizen who wished to take the risk of the unruly Agerzaks to farm the lucrative sugar and pineapple crops. When the Zzuki invaded, the Autonomy offered citizenship to any Agerzaks who enlisted. Many resisted. Receiving the Blessings of Riasruo went against their religion, or so Ary heard.
The abrasive sergeant-major hadn’t resisted. Pity a Zzuki warrior hadn’t ripped his head off.
~ * * ~
Chaylene gave her husband a curious look as he and a second marine, a man even bigger than Ary, jogged past. Zori made an appreciative murmur. Chaylene smiled.
“And what is so amusing, ladies?” asked Warrant Officer Veld, their weathered-faced commanding officer. His light-blue coat was half-unbuttoned and his hair was a messy bush. He hadn’t even bothered to tuck in his shirt. Out of all the officers and NCOs she’d seen at Camp Chubris, only he kept an untidy uniform, although it dangled medals.
“Nothing, sir,” Chaylene reported.
He glanced at the two marines running by. “Right, nothing.”
Chaylene’s cheeks heated. “Sorry, sir. One of them is my husband.”
“How romantic. Maybe we should abandon training and talk about our relationships.” The warrant officer glanced at the last member of their scout cohort, a tall man with messy, blond hair. “Velegrin. Perhaps you’d like to add to this conversation?”
Velegrin gave a quick laugh. “Not sure what I could add. Now, if they were a pair of female marines, I’m sure I could come up with something to say, sir.”
“I wager you could.” A grin split Veld’s lips. “And relax. We’re scouts, not downyheaded marines with fence posts shoved up our backsides to keep our spines straight.”
Chaylene flushed and Zori gave a wicked laugh.
“The four of us are the eyes and ears of the Dauntless. We’ll often be out on our own, away from the crew, where we need to use our brains and think for ourselves. The sailors and marines are taught to mindlessly obey. They need to act in an instant when a superior gives them a command. But we need to be independent.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And knock that off. You don’t have to address me as ‘sir’ or ‘warrant officer.’ I’m Breston. A fine name. My pa gave it to me himself.”
They nodded.
“Okay, see that?” He pointed to the Autonomy’s flag—a golden, two-headed griffin on a field of blue and red divided diagonally—flapping from a tall, wooden pole. “That’s what we’re serving. Blue for the skies and red for the blood of our great-grandfathers that won us our freedom from the Empire’s tyranny.”
Chaylene shifted.
“Climb it.”
“What?” Velegrin gaped. “But it’s a smooth pole with a flimsy rope.”
“Then you best figure out how to do it.” Breston grinned. “When you’re not flying pegasi, you’ll be in the crow’s nest.”
The trio jogged to the flagpole. Chaylene’s stomach fluttered. How am I supposed to climb that? It’s so tall. They passed the sailors sweating and jumping around as they performed calisthenics. Beyond, the marines pushed their prone bodies up and down with their arms while a hulking, Agerzak sergeant with a bristling, black beard bellowed the most awful things at them.
“Who’s climbing first?” Velegrin asked, his green eyes squinting at the pole’s top.
Zori glanced at Chaylene and gave her a suggestive smile. Their commanding officer watched them like an osprey eyeing a school of fish drifting towards a barley field. She felt his friendly manner would evaporate if none of them tried to climb it.
You’re stronger than you think.
She glanced around and glimpsed her husband’s red coat flashing between buildings as he ran the perimeter. I can do this. She grabbed the rough shaft of the flagpole. It looked smooth from a distance, but small cracks, splinters, and tool marks adorned the wood. She held on tight and leaped, wrapping her legs around it.
And slid down.
She squeezed harder, arresting her descent. She dragged herself half-a-rope up the pole with her arms, limbs burning. But then she hit an impasse. She couldn’t move her arms up higher without relaxing her grip. If she did, she’d fall. Her palms burned and her grip loosened. With a yelp, she dropped, landing on her backside. Her palm burned, a splinter embedded into her dark flesh.
