by David Tatum
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
PROLOG
OPENING GAMBITS
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
ZWISCHENZUG
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
THE PROMOTION OF PAWNS
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
ENDGAME
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
EPILOG: Resetting the Pieces
Also From David A. Tatum and Fennec Fox Press
Shieldclads, Book I:
The Merrimack Event
by David A. Tatum
The Merrimack Event
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
© 2017 David A. Tatum
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, Fennec Fox Press, except for fair use.
Published in the United States of America
ISBN-13 978-1-943830-00-8
Fennec Fox Press
www.FennecFoxPress.com
Cover art by Joel C. Payne (https://www.wishpictures.com/)
Acknowledgments
This book was an absolute nightmare to put together. For those of you who have not been visiting my blog or any of my social media accounts, you probably haven’t heard, but this book has been in the self-publishing equivalent of “development hell” for over two years. Editors vanishing on me, non-responsive cover artists followed by a cover artist I had to fire (and finally the one who produced the magnificent cover art you now see), the loss of one fully-edited version of the manuscript while attempting to make a back-up (resulting in my having to completely re-edit it from a much older version), and more.
However, even if you had been following my blog and social media, you probably were unaware that the original version of this manuscript was completed thirteen years ago – even before my debut novel, “In Treachery Forged.” And it was a horrible manuscript. After becoming a self-publisher, when going through my “older” work to decide what to try and publish and what to ultimately reject, this manuscript was the most borderline of the bunch. But I saw a diamond in the (really, really) rough, here, and I’ve been working to polish it ever since. If I were writing this book today there might be a few stylistic choices I might have made differently, but after all of the work that’s been done on it I think it came out pretty good. Of course, that’s for you readers to decide.
By the time I decided to be a self-publisher (even before the “development hell” situation), the manuscript had been checked over by several people, all of whom added touches to it. There were problems with this (I think, ultimately, people were trying to selectively edit certain sections to conform to six different style guides, but no-one in the process applied the same style guide to the whole text. Sorting that out was just one of the things that caused that development hell pain), but they all helped make it better in the end.
As usual, I would like to thank my family for all their help with this book. My late father inspired my love of books and, in a sense, taught me how to write. My mother and brother have both done everything they could to help, including acting as beta readers for a time.
I also want to thank Joel Christopher Payne for finally resolving the whole cover art mess. After having had to fire my previous cover artist, I was about to give up entirely on this book, but then he stepped up to the plate.
I also want to express my appreciation to the Society for Creative Anachronisms, for the use of their name, and Boosey & Hawkes, who let me know in e-mail that Sir Henry Newbolt’s “Old Superb” would be falling into the public domain before this book was to be published. (That was years ago, back when this thirteen-year-old book was still fairly new). Also, I would like to thank the anonymous person who provided OpenClipArt.com the free-for-commercial-use chess graphic I included.
Finally, as mentioned above, this book has been touched by numerous hands over its thirteen years of pre-publication existence. Some of these people may not even remember working on it, it’s been so long ago (a few I lost touch with before I’d even settled on a title for this book), but I would like to thank everyone who helped: Andrew “MageOhki” Norris, Ed “Kickaha” Beccera, June “KaraOhki” Geraci, all those people in chat whose real names I never learned (including the programmer of Akane “the Magic 8-Ball” Bot, who I’m not sure I ever met but whose chat bot provided a lot of laughs and even a bit of inspiration), Sarah Myers (if you ever see this, and remember designing that uniform, PLEASE contact me! I’d like to hire you again, but my old e-mail for you doesn’t seem to work any more), certain fellow members of the Washington Capitals message boards that I can no longer get in touch with, and anyone else who I’ve forgotten from across that thirteen year gap.
Oh, and a big “thank you” to everyone reading this book. Enjoy!
PROLOG
Alcyone Star System, Pleiades Alpha, Site 39
Dr. Whitlow Foley wiped the sweat from his forehead. The power was out again, and all of his equipment, environmental control systems, and recreational facilities were offline. This was one part of being a xenoanthropologist and archaeologist that he hated – the complete lack of protection from the elements. He had once been the top field archaeologist in Pleiades, but had been trapped in academia for years before he found a sponsor for this multi-dig expedition. This was his return to the field, and he was not as fit as he used to be. Worse, the heat of Pleiades Alpha’s multiple suns didn’t exactly agree with him.
This time of year, three stars lit the sky every hour of the Earth-traditional day. If it weren’t for the very advanced terraforming techniques humans had been using for centuries, Pleiades Alpha would have been uninhabitable… but nothing could completely fix the brutal weather. For that reason alone, he thought it was a lousy place to have built the capital of the Pleiades Republic… but Pleiades Alpha did have its rewards for a xenoanthropologist like him.
Foley wanted to start work at the excavation area, a new zone about a kilometer east of their initial site, where he had found evidence of a city from some long dead alien civilization. He had not found any fossil evidence, nor any apparent writing, but that was no surprise. From studying other ruins on the planet, however, he was convinced that there should be an ‘art gallery’ of sorts, somewhere on the eastern outskirts of the ruined city. Several such ‘galleries’ discovered in the past were quite spectacular, and he needed to find something big. So far he had found nothing of any significance since his return to the field. He was wondering if he would have anything at all to show his patrons when it was all over.
That was another issue he disliked about being an archaeologist: The politics required to solicit funding. At the start, Foley had been confident that the Pleiades Republic’s Government Science Directorate would finance the dig, given his cred
entials, his well researched proposal, and the directorate’s current budget levels. To his astonishment, they refused. It was the only time he had ever been refused funding for a dig of this type in his career. He had withdrawn to academia for several years, still trying to find a way to fund this project. Foley eventually found a handful of reputable private sources of funding, however, and managed to gather enough private funds to proceed. It was only after he’d done so much work begging for the money he needed that the Government changed his mind and decided to sponsor him anyway. Since then, Dr. Ian Karlsson, the Pleiades Director of Science, had sent him more money and personnel – mostly in the form of university interns – than Foley had ever seen in an archaeological expedition.
Unfortunately, Foley was having severe problems with this dig despite those resources. Some initial excavations around the buried city had been completed quickly and efficiently, but still they yielded little of interest. It was after moving to a new dig site closer to the heart of the city that his troubles began in earnest, though. The expedition seemed to be encountering new problems every hour, each one resulting in work stoppages and slow downs. The disruptions often were relatively minor, like the current power outage or a misplaced tool cart, but some were more serious: Chemical leaks from the equipment, the theft of a portable generator, even a wrecked transport vehicle. One of his students had jokingly suggested that someone was trying to sabotage the dig, but Foley had waved him away dismissively. Regardless, they weren’t making any progress or discoveries worth reporting, much less coming close to anything worth inspiring sabotage.
“Dr. Foley!” called one of his graduate students, apparently in a panic. The student belonged to his class at the local university and not one of the fifty or so supplied at various times by the Pleiades government. At first Foley was surprised by how much harder and better his own students were working than anyone else in the dig. Later, after observing more of the interns’ efforts, he concluded that the science directorate was simply using his expedition to dump its most embarrassingly incompetent students. He wondered if that had been the government’s true motive for funding his dig: Providing a jobs program for underachieving youth.
“Dr. Foley, come quick!”
Foley sighed. “What’s gone wrong, now? Did the dirt catch fire or something?”
The student looked at his professor, gaping. “What? Is that even possible?”
The doctor shook his head disgustedly. “If it were, I’m sure it would have happened to us by now. What is it?”
“Well, sir, a few of us were talking, and we kinda decided to go ahead and start the dig by hand, since we don’t have any power to run the electronic tools,” the student explained. “We remembered your lecture on excavations prior to the introduction of all of the fancy equipment we have now, so we got started using spades, brushes, sticks and twine to mark out spots, dirt—”
“Yes, yes,” Foley interrupted impatiently. “I get it. You decided to dig with archaic tools and methods. Admirable, perhaps, but you should have come to ask me about it first, you know.”
“Well, yeah, maybe,” the student admitted, abashed. “But that’s not the important thing. We found something. Something... uh, interesting.”
Foley cocked his head. “Interesting how?”
“Bones, Dr. Foley. Fossils. And this is the funny thing, professor: They looked like human bones. Prehistoric human bones – Neanderthals unless I miss my guess.”
“Neanderthals?” Foley exclaimed. “But... how?”
“I don’t know how, Professor, but you’ve got to come check it out. It’s... I want you to be there, just to document that we aren’t trying to pull a hoax.”
“Right, right,” Foley said, picking up the pace as they hiked to the site. Still, he had to wonder. No-one had ever found a skeleton of the aliens who inhabited the stars of the Pleiades Republic, even in fossil records. In any human-explored star systems, in fact, even if there were ruins of now dead civilization on many worlds. It was as if each planet had been deliberately scrubbed of all non-human intelligent life long before humanity reached for the stars... but if this really was an alien skeleton, then that would mean... what? That humans were planted on Earth in the form of Neanderthals? That Neanderthals were somehow taken off of Earth millennia ago, to populate planets like this one?
Assuming, of course, the student was right, and these were, indeed, Neanderthals. If this checks out, I’m going to need some help working this. Real, professional help.
PART I: OPENING GAMBITS
CHAPTER I
Earth Alliance Naval Academy, Earth Campus
“Come on, Chris. Wake up! Rachel just commed me – she’s on her way here, now! You can’t afford to get any more demerits,” Cadet Lieutenant Wolfgang Schubert admonished, shaking his bunkmate. “There’s no more time – wake up!”
Christopher Desaix, also a Cadet Lieutenant at the Earth Alliance Naval Academy (formerly the Earth Alliance Treaty Organization Naval Academy, but it was shortened several centuries before. Even the bureaucrats felt that was too wordy), opened bloodshot eyes to peer up at his room mate. He had a few other acquaintances, people he played games with or studied with and the like, but Chris suspected he’d lose touch with them once the semester ended. Schubert, however, he would probably know for the rest of his life. A rare, true friend.
Schubert had languished his entire first year as a Midshipman, only being promoted to Cadet Ensign in the summer. His Lieutenant’s bars were a recent award, received for academic performance at the semester break... largely thanks to Chris’ study help.
On paper, it would be difficult to see what the two had in common, at least career-wise. Chris, as a freshman, would not have normally ranked above Ensign, but he had been given an ‘out-of-sequence’ grade jump by a patron who was impressed with Chris’ work on a major tactical exercise.
Despite his achievement, Chris refused to major in tactics – the short path to command – in favor of engineering, his true passion. At the personal insistence of Admiral Michael McCaffrey, who had sponsored the exercise that won him his promotion, Chris was taking the introductory courses required for a minor in tactics.
Chris was hardly a model of naval discipline, and cared little for his rank. He joined the Navy primarily to get an advanced education in starship engineering, and his obvious lack of ambition did nothing to win him any friends. Professional jealousy over his promotion didn’t exactly help in that area, either.
Schubert cared about none of these things. He did, however, think Chris seemed unusually cranky.
“I feel like hell. Can’t whatever it is wait for another hour or so?” Chris squinted at a nearby clock – an antique dial-face clock with laminated gold numbers. “I just got to sleep an hour ago.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said? Rachel’s already on her way, and she sounded royally pissed off. You’ve got to get up and get into uniform, pronto!”
“She’s always pissed off with me, so that’s no big surprise,” Chris snorted, making a haphazard grab at the same pair of socks he’d been wearing the previous evening. “What’s it about this time?”
“Something about Morrison’s class, I think,” Schubert replied.
Chris buttoned up his heavily wrinkled uniform shirt and scratched the back of his head in puzzlement. Captain Morrison, his professor for strategy and tactics, came down on her students hard enough for their frailties without his fellow classmates berating him as well. Even Cadet Lt. Commander Rachel Katz, his barracks CO and resident hard ass (at least where Christopher Desaix was concerned), knew that. So what was she bugging him for now?
“Oh, yeah,” he remembered, looking around for his pants. “Open the desk and grab my hand comp for me, will you?”
Shaking his head as his fellow bunkmate stumbling around, Schubert stepped to the small workspace they shared and waved a spare key wand at the wall. A matte black drawer labeled “Desaix” slid silently out from its brushed aluminum frame. Shoving asi
de a jumble of antique electronics, Schubert fished out the one piece of modern equipment Chris owned that he seemed to care for. “Why’s she so steamed at you, anyway?”
“She’s my partner in a tactical sim,” Chris explained. “It’s due today.”
Schubert nodded slowly in understanding. “She said she was going to rip your head off if you weren’t awake when she got here.”
Chris frowned and shook his head. “I’ve heard that one before. Either she’s starting to go soft on me, or she’s run out of threats to use. What’s the weather like – do I need my jacket?”
“Probably,” Schubert replied dryly. “It is the dead of winter around here, you know, and we had a pretty nasty ice storm not two days ago. Not that you would have noticed, as you haven’t left the compound since Friday.”
“Hey, I’ve been busy!”
Schubert rolled his eyes. “Yeah, fixing those antiques of yours again. You spend so much time on those things it’s a wonder you’re passing any of your classes. Why don’t you ever go out and do something? This may be a military academy, but it’s still got all the social scene of your average college. Parties, a pool hall, parties, a theater, parties, game rooms, and did I mention parties?”
“Hey, it’s just a hobby,” Chris replied, fastening the magnetic clasps on his jacket. “I’m not much of one for the party scene. Besides, I’ve been too busy with class work to even touch one of my restoration projects, lately. Do you see my glasses anywhere?”
Schubert shook his head, and handed him the wire frame lenses. “More antiques. You really prefer these fragile things to one-time laser surgery you could be done with in ten minutes?”
“Well, for one thing, these aren’t antiques. They were made to my specifications.” Chris replied. “As far as the laser surgery is concerned, I had it once already. It wasn’t able to fully correct my vision, however, so....” He shrugged.
