He Who Dares: Book One (The Gray Chronicals 1)

by Rob Buckman

  "Yes!" The gruff voice from inside asked.

  "Cadet Gray reporting as ordered.” He answered, offering his movement orders.

  "You’re late! You should have been here three hours ago.”

  "I know, but the mag-lift train from the space port was running late…" The man pointedly ignored the offered orders.

  "Go to barracks number five!” The voice cut off his excuse by slamming the window shut in his face.

  "But…" He said, tapping on the window again.

  "What!"

  "…can you tell me where I can get a meal? I haven't eaten since this morning."

  "Your problem mate, not mine. You should have been here on time." The man let out a nasty chuckle, slamming the window shut.

  Mike Gray felt his temper rising and resisted the temptation to put his fist through the window and grab the jerk by the throat. It wouldn’t do any good, and not an auspicious start to his naval career. Gritting his teeth, he shouldered the duffel bag and trudged off through the falling snow to find barracks number five. As he trudged down the unseen road, a dark shape loomed up out of the wintry monochrome landscape as the half moon played hide-and-seek between the scudding clouds. Wet gray concrete and unlit windows of a three-story barrack materialized out of the snowy landscape, with a large black number ONE painted in five-foot high letter on the end wall. With a sigh, he hunched his shoulder against the cold, wet snow and trudged on, counting off the ghostly shapes of the buildings as he did. At last, the fifth building came into view, looking as bleak and lonely as the last one. On dead feet, he walked around it looking for the front door, finding it on the fourth side he checked. He swore. Had he turned the other way, he would have found it on the first try. Shaking his head in exasperation and tried the door, find the accumulated snow and ice had jammed it shut. Finally gave in to the persistent pounding of his broad shoulder only to dump him on the wet floor of the dimly lit lobby when it did. This time he swore in three different languages, two of them alien. Getting to his feet, he dragged his duffel, and walked down the hallway, trying one door after another, finding them either locked or nothing more than a utility cupboard smelling of damp mops and floor polish. On the second floor, he found one that opened into a dorm room, complete with eight single beds with the mattress folded on the end, blankets and sheets on top. With a sigh, he stumbled in, taking the bed by the far window and dropped onto the bare springs. For a moment, he just sat there while the snow and ice melted into a pool of dirty water around his feet.

  ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ He muttered. ‘I should be home. Not in this God forsaken shithole.’ For a moment, loneliness, like a black, smoothing blanket, threatening to choke him, something he’d rarely felt before.

  On Avalon, he’d spent days, weeks away from home on his own. Roaming and exploring the mountains and forest, but he had never felt anything like this. The last time he was off world he’d been in a barracks with people around so he never had time to feel sorry for himself. Everything said this was a mistake, and that he was just running from one problem to another, just like before. This feeling was almost a physical weight, and it was only by a sheer act of will he pulled his mind back from the descending spiral of loneliness that threatened to engulf him. At first, the whole idea of coming to Earth and entering the Royal Navy seemed like the answer to a prayer, an escape, somewhere to hide, a means to escape the spotlight again, but now he had his doubts. Nevertheless, he was here, on Earth at the Naval Training College, HMS Marchwood, about to become a Navy Cadet Midshipman. Thinking back, he tried to understand the source of the crystal clear vision he’d had of himself dressed in a fleet Admiral’s uniform. In a flash of insight, he’d seen the long, twisting path that led him to that point. This was what he was supposed to do, his destiny. He’d also seen a brief glimpse of the people he'd send to their deaths, and that vision alone almost stopped him from leaving home again. Was he condemned to get people killed, as he had his Grandfather? Whatever the root cause of the vision he knew he had to follow the path no matter the cost, but not for himself, he knew that. He had to follow the death laden path for the sake of humanity, for he knew without a doubt that failure meant the end of the human race itself.

  With a sigh, he stood at last and peeled off his wet overcoat and shoes, shivering as he did. Looking around, he spotted a control unit on the wall and hopping across the ice cold floor, he cranked up the heating unit. Somewhere in the heating duct overhead, a fan spun into noisy life, squeaking and clicking as the old oil in the bearing protested at the sudden workload, the tip of one bent blade hitting something with an annoying metallic clicking sound. At least it began to pump warm air into the room along with some dust and an odd musty smell. Hanging his wet overcoat in the locker, he lifted the blankets and sheet and unfolded the mattress, finding two pillows tucked inside. He carefully made his bed, and if nothing else, he’d have a place to sleep tonight. He wasn’t sure if he’d be staying here, suspecting not, so he didn’t bother unpacking, just took out his towel, soap and shampoo, before placing the duffel in a locker. Even with the heating on he was still shivering, and decided to investigate the shower facilities. Much to his surprise the water ran hot once the brownish ice water cleared itself out of the pipes. Closing the door to the cubical he undressed and climbed under the stream of hot water with a contented sigh.

  "Oh my lord! Heat!" He sighed, closing his eyes in sheer bliss. That was the one disadvantage of coming from a mostly sub-tropical planet, it never really got cold except in the mountains, and then he was usually dressed for it. Mike took his time, enjoying the sensation of the hot water flowing over his skin, occasionally letting out a long groan as various parts of his body de-frosted. Like all good things it had to end and it did when the water suddenly turned ice cold.

  "Arrrrrrrrr!” he yelled, jumping back. "Son of a pox ridden dock whore!" He growled, grabbing the control handle.

  Cocking an ear, he heard another shower running, guessing that some other late arrived was taking a shower to warm up. Whoever it was, they might have at least had the courtesy to turn the water on slowly, or yell out. Then, out of spite, he reached over and cranked the temperature control all the way to cold, moments later hearing a reassuring scream from a neighboring shower stall. He waited a moment, counting off the second then cranked the control all the way too hot.

  "SON OF A BITCH!" A distinctive female voice yelled. Mike quickly turned the control to the center, blushing furiously. He'd forgotten that both male and female cadets shared the same facilities here on Earth. A moment later, someone started pounding on his shower door.

  "You in there! Are you the misbegotten dickhead that playing around with the controls?" A female voice asked angrily.

  "Who me?" Mike asked, holding a towel around his waist, he stuck his head out of the door, giving her his most innocent look. A girl stood there glaring up at him, her long fair hair hanging around her pixy face in wet disarray. She’d wrapped a towel wrapped around her body and tucked together in the cleft between her small breasts.

  "Yes, you!" she snapped, her hazel eyes flashing fire.

  "Me! No, I was just about to get dressed. I got a blast of ice water as well. It must be the plumbing in this old place." He looked myopically up at the piping on the ceiling, a puzzled look on his face, killing his first through of telling her to go fuck herself.

  He could see she didn’t quite believe him, yet without definite proof there was no way she could call him a liar. Well, she could. Instead, she tried tossing her wet hair over her shoulder in the universal female gesture of dismissal and stormed back to her cubicle. Mike grinned wolfishly as he closed the door, quickly climbed into his clothes and beat a hasty retreat to the dorm. The moment he entered, he knew there was going to be trouble. Another late arrival was now lying on his bed, wet coat, snow, boots and all.

  "Excuse me, but you are on my bed!"

  "You’re excused old man, just find another why don't you. Plenty more to go round you kn
ow." The young man on the bed waved him away with a limp hand. He hadn’t even bothered to open his eyes to see who it was.

  "I said you are on my bed!" Mike said, gritting his teeth, feeling hot waves of anger radiating from his gut.

  The pale faced young man opened his eyes, watery blue, with definite signs of being under the influence of something and looked him up and down. It was the slight sneer on the man’s face that galled Mike the most, as if he was talking to some servant.

  “Plenty of other bed’s old boy. Why don’t you go and use one of those.” The watery blue eye traveled over Mike’s rangy body as if weighing him like a side of beef.

  "You can either remove yourself, asshole or I’ll move you, your choice!" His off Earth accent coming to the fore.

  "Do you know to whom you are speaking, you bog trotting colonial reject!" The young man yawned, shifting his dirty boots on the covers.

  "Personally, I don't give a flying fuck!"

  Not having heard that particular slur before Mike didn’t take as much offense to it as maybe he should, but he’d be damned if he’d let this limp dick wimp take his bed without an argument.

  "I am James Heartmore, Third Duke of Richmond."

  "I don’t give a fuck who you are. Get off my bed asshole...” Mike felt the fury inside rising, and the pain in his head started to build as his hands closed into a fist.

  "Jimmy! Get your lazy butt off the man's bed and find one of your own." A female voice said from behind him, cutting off the rest of his angry remarks.

  Whipping round, Mike found himself looking into the hazel eyes of the girl from the shower. She looked at him a moment, as if deciding something, then down at the man on the bed.

  "Jan, give me a break.” The young man sighed, waving his hand in the air. “I'm feeling a little under the weather right now. I'm sure we can straighten this all out in the morning." James Heartmore yawned, smacking his girlish lips together as if he had something unpleasant in his mouth.

  "Now Jimmy!" She said, walking around Mike and reaching to grab the young man’s coat front. Even as angry as he was, Mike noted in passing that the material of her silk pajamas stretched very nicely over her tight round bottom.

  "All right! I'm moving." Jimmy rolled away from her descending hand. "You always were a spiteful person Jan.” He gave Mike a dirty look as if to say this was his fault, and dragged his duffel bag over to an empty bed, muttering under his breath.

  "Thank you… Jan? But I could have handled the little twit myself." In a way Mike was glad she’d stepped in, as pounding the shit out of another cadet might not be a good way to start his new career.

  "The name is Fletcher, Cadet Fletcher to you.” She corrected in a snotty tone.

  "Well, excuse me!" Mike snapped back, biting off any more.

  "And who might you be?" she asked, turning to walk away.

  "Me? My name is… Gray,” he growled them softened his tone. “Mike Gray.”

  "And what… planet, do you come from?"

  "From… Kellman, he lied, suspected that the girl was about to say colony instead of planet, but let it pass. She had at least tried to hide her feeling about someone not from Earth. She looked him up and down for a moment, much the same way Heartmore had.

  “Oh, one of ours. That’s nice,” she commented in a condescending off-handily way as she walked across the room to her bunk.

  She made is sound as if she didn’t care where he came from, it wasn’t Earth. He knew from experience how Earther’s thought about people from the colonies, and especially about someone from a place like Kellman. Antediluvian neobarbs to their way of thinking. It was an old story, told many times throughout human history. The citizens of the mother country looking down their collective noses at anyone from the colonies. Even if those self same colonies made the mother country rich in the process.

  In this case, once Captain William Enright invented a working FTL drive, the nation states of Earth rushed to colonies every available M Class planet they could find. England made trillions in the process, and still more from the output from the colonies. At least they hadn’t made the same past mistake and tried taking territory with an indigenous or sentinel life form. In the process, America, Russia, United States, China, Japan and countless other countries claimed planets and star systems for themselves. They packed every available ship with people and supplies, some willing, some not so willing and shipped them off world. Many simply dumped on some godforsaken chuck of dirt to fend for themselves, failing through sickness, famine or some indigenous life form incompatible with humans. Usually, the Royal Navy had to go in and clear up the resulting mess, and arrange for the survivor’s transport to another, better founded colony, or return them to Earth, even if the mother country didn’t want to take them back. After the first rush gobbled up the readily available M Class planets, the respective governments began clambering for more, and England sent out a swarm of scout ships to search. His great grandfather had been a scout ship pilot for a few years, seeming to have a nose for finding livable space. He had more than a few claims to his credit, and used them to retire to Avalon, which he had also discovered. By that time, the first impulse to migrate had died down, so no one challenged his right to purchase. He bought the sole rights to the whole star system and used the reward money to set it up the way he wanted. Therein lay the second reason he lied about where he was from. Off-worlders looked at people from Avalon with deep suspicion. The only way they could live and procreate on a heavy world like Avalon was through genetic manipulation, but it also engendered story and half truths about genetic supermen that no amount of PR could change.

  Cleaning off his vacated bunk the best he could, he made himself comfortable eyeing his fellow travelers as more late arrivals came in. They were a mixed bunch, ranging from tall and blond, too short and dark and everything in between. His mind immediately picked out the leaders and the followers, the big mouth braggart and the softly spoken ones who like to stay in the background. From what he could see, there were no truly dangerous ones here, except probably Heartmore. He was a back stabber, a manipulator of other people’s misery. Mike made a mental note to keep an eye him, not that he expected to catch him doing anything direct, just manipulating any situation to his advantage. Mike used his data-comp to bring his log up to date and checked for mail. As yet, the local main frame hadn’t registered him, so it would be a few days before anything caught up to him, not that he expected any mail.

  “Anyone know what time we have to get up?” someone asked the room at large.

  “When they start yelling at us I presume.” Jan answered with a chuckle.

  That received a few groans around the room, especially from James Heartmore, Third Duke of Richmond as he tried for the third time to make his bed. Mike smiled, feeling no sympathy for the man. He pulled out two bars of trail rations, and munching on one as he climbed into bed to get warm. So much for the wonderful welcome to Earth he’d dreamt about. This was about as far down the scale as he could have imagined and doubted it would get better any time soon. Other late arrivals came in but they didn’t bother him, or the lights going on and off, much as it did the others trying desperately to sleep before revelry. One poor individual sported a large knot on his head in the morning from the boot that struck him when he switched the light on one too many times. Mike’s ability to sleep anywhere under almost any conditions served him well, and awoke refreshed even before someone started yelling for them to get up.

  Opening one eye, he looked around, but the view wasn’t any better than when he went to sleep, and it was still dark outside. A quick glance at his wrist crono showed it was 05:30 GMT, or half an hour before dawn. A hard faced man, middle age man in uniform walked down the room, ripping bedclothes off the sleeping forms, and throwing them on the floor where they soaked up the melted snow. To add to the impending misery some fool had turned off the central heating during the night, and now the dorm was freezing cold. Mike sat up and crossed his arms, leaning back again
st the wall, a slight smile on his face, as he watched the reaction of the others as they came awake. These ranged from screams of outrage, to swearing, but all met with the same response.

  “Get your lazy ass out of bed cadet - Move it! This isn’t a bloody holiday camp!” Mike looked for and found the man rank, finding he was nothing more than an Able Rating and probably the last man on watch, and ordered to wake up the new recruits.

  He was obviously taking malicious pleasure in doing in, and even from the quick glimpse he had got through the sliding glass window last night, it was the same individual who’d greeted him at the gate. The man walked towards Mike’s bed, his hand reaching out, even thought he could see Mike was awake.

  “You touch this bed asshole and I will personally throw you out the fucking window.”

  “You think so?” The man gave him a hard look and nasty grin, reaching for the covers anyway.