Red Sky Dawning

by Ian J. Malone

  “Newsflash, sweetie. They now have to take the groom’s photos after the ceremony because of you, which puts the entire wedding party late getting to the reception. FYI, I’d be a little pissed, too.”

  Danny shrugged apologetically.

  “Now,” Madisyn said, stepping aside. “Get your butt in there so you can suit up in time to run through things with Lee and the coordinator. You have the rings, right?”

  Danny slapped frantically at his pockets.

  “You didn’t!”

  “Chill out, Mom. I’m just screwing with you.” Danny tapped the box outline in his jacket pocket. “They’re right here.”

  Madisyn was unamused. “Groom’s dressing space is next to the pastor’s office. Use the side entrance, third door on the right.”

  Danny kissed her on the cheek then slung the garment bag over his shoulder to go. “Hey,” he called from the door. “You know you look fantastic, right?”

  Madisyn blushed. “Move your ass, soldier. That’s an order.”

  * * *

  “Well, would ya look at that,” Lee said in his usual Southern twang while adjusting the cuffs of his uniform. “If it ain’t my best man, finally decided to join us. That was right generous of him, wouldn’t ya say, fellas?”

  Link and Hamish, both likewise already dressed, gave matching “don’t drag me into this” looks from across the room.

  “Sorry I’m late, bro,” Danny said, closing the door behind him. “I wish I had a better excuse, but I just lost track of time once our shuttle docked in Wakulla. It’s my bad, man.”

  “Yeah,” Lee said, “because the Baxters peelin’ out of the PGC-East parkin’ garage to get here on time shouldn’t have been a flag to get movin’.”

  Danny gave him a lopsided smirk. “In my defense, Link peels out on his way to day care.”

  “Guilty.” Link raised his hand.

  “That may be true,” Lee said, “but at the very least, you might’ve thought about hitchin’ a lift with him rather than takin’ your own car. You know? For the sake of time? Don’ mind me, though. I’m just thinkin’ out loud, here.”

  Danny was offended. “Hey man, if I’ve gotta come back to this planet—to go to church, no less—I’m at least pulling the cover off my ride while I’m here. That’s just the way it is.”

  “You and that car.” Lee ran a hand through his sandy-brown brush cut then glanced at his silver dive watch. “It’s…whatever. Outside of the photos, I think we’re still good on time, providin’ that you hurry up and get dressed. A word to the wise, though—steer clear of Mac and Katie when you—”

  “I know, I know,” Danny said on his way to the changing space in the corner. “I was read the riot act by Madisyn when I came in.”

  “Oh, you have no idea, lad,” Hamish said, rising to his feet and checking his collar.

  “That’s real, Crockett,” Link said. “Me and Layla passed Katie in the hall on our way in, and when she saw you weren’t with us, I swear I thought her head would explode.”

  “Not helping, guys,” Danny called over the wall. Buckling his trousers and tossing his unbuttoned white dress shirt over his shoulders, he scooped up his shoes and headed back out into the open.

  “You tell Madisyn about the Bombshell gig next week?” Link asked.

  “Bombshell what?” Lee asked. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you take leave for your trip with Madisyn next week?”

  Danny shrugged. “Yeah, but the Bombshell’s on the way.”

  “Yeah, no, it’s really not,” Lee said.

  “Listen, it’s no sweat,” Danny said. “Reegan’s got it all worked out where I won’t have to lose any of my time with Madisyn to make it happen. Really, it’ll be fine.”

  Lee looked unconvinced. “Your funeral, brother. So Link tells me Vendale 2 went well. Says your team even nabbed a fat little bonus in the process.”

  Danny grinned and found a chair. “Minister Ralph H. Kean, in the blubber.”

  “Nice,” Lee said. “Who took lead on the interrogation?”

  “It was supposed to be Noll,” Danny said, “but the chancellor cut a deal to get him back before the good sergeant major had time to do his thing.”

  “Typical,” Link scoffed to Hamish.

  “Tell me about it,” Lee said. “What’d we get for him, anyway?”

  “All ninety-six survivors from the Farymore,” Danny said.

  “Wow, that’s almost the entire expedition,” Lee said with wide eyes. “I’m glad to hear that. We thought they’d all been lost with the ship.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Danny said, lacing his shoes and turning a curious eye back to Lee. “Hey, you’re command now. What’s up with all of the attention we’ve been paying to the border, anyway?”

  “How do ya figure?” Lee asked.

  “Vendale 2 was our third drop this month in that section of the rim, and our sixth in the last eleven weeks,” Danny said. “Tie that in with everything else that’s been happening lately in the region—namely all those troop movements in the Thaylon and Fyndahl systems—and it smells to a lot of us like Katahl and the brass have something cooking in the ol’ strategy kitchen. Something big.”

  Lee folded his arms. “Sorry brother, but my command access don’t kick in till I get back to the Kennox to report for lead pilot duty—and even then, questions like that are still above my pay grade.”

  Danny shook his head and rose to tuck in his shirt. “I’ll tell you what I do know. On our way out, we caught sight of that new Horizon-class carrier they just let loose. The one everybody’s been talking about.” He whistled. “Dude. That’s an absolute beast of a machine.”

  “Whoa, you guys saw the Harkens?” Lee brightened. “How does she look?”

  “In two words,” Link said. “Bad…ass! We flew in on the AS Larrin, and the Harkens was moored next to us in orbital dock. Man, she’s gotta be, what?” He looked to Danny. “Nineteen…twenty meters longer than the Praetorian, minimum?”

  “And four decks taller,” Danny said. “Plus, double the hull plating, a 40 percent boost in payload capacity, a gen-three C-100 powerplant—”

  “And don’t even get me started on her armament,” Link said. “Danny, did you see those new 532-series slider cannons on her bow? The other guys in my squad are calling them ‘slammers’ now, and I kid you not, man, I plump wood just thinking about those things!”

  “Wow, bro, gracias for that little bit of imagery,” Danny grumbled. “Any word on who’s gonna command her? Last I heard, Colonel Erb from the Davis had the inside track on that job.”

  “Nah,” Hamish said. “Erb’s a fine commander, to be sure, but he’s a wee bit green yet for a post like the Harkens. They’ll want someone with a longer resume. Someone from the president’s defense staff?”

  Lee dismissed both suggestions with a gesture. “Nope and nope. Mark my words: it’ll be Vince Ryan, hands down. Ever since he made colonel, they’ve been groomin’ that guy for the big time, and I’d bet credits to cocktails that the Harkens is it.”

  “Makes sense,” Danny said with a final twist, flip, and pull of his tie before smoothing it out. “Having a guy with Ryan’s popularity in the big chair of the ASC’s shiniest new toy? It’s a slam dunk for morale.”

  A knock came from the door, followed by a call of “Five minutes!” from the wedding coordinator.

  Lee turned to the others. “Everybody set?”

  * * *

  Beautifully decorated in a vibrant tropical theme of palms, ferns, and spring floral arrangements—most lining the stage in front of the main pulpit—the sanctuary had a warm, delicate glow that accentuated the scene’s natural color and gave photographers a solid level from which to work. There were candles, of course, along with an arbor coated in ivy, and bows around sunflowers on all the family pews. The speakers overhead, meanwhile, played the likes of Billy Joel, Frank Sinatra, and Jack Johnson.

  Breathtaking, but simple, Danny thought, noting the crowd of maybe seven
ty-five attendees seated in folding chairs before him. To an unaware bystander, this probably looked like any other middle-class wedding—modest and frugal—not that of two millionaires, which, technically, Lee and Mac were. In exchange for their participation in the Mimic Project, everyone—Danny included—had been given controlling shares of the Phoenix Gaming Company, and while that would’ve certainly financed a posh fairy-tale wedding in some exotic part of the world, that just wasn’t Lee and Mac. It never had been, even before the money. But a quaint, private ceremony with close friends and family in the same small-town church that the McKinseys had attended for years? Yeah, that was more like it. Add in the sure-to-be-rockin’, open-bar reception back at the PGC-East ballroom in Wakulla, and Danny wondered if this event could be any more appropriate for those it celebrated.

  “Hey, man,” Danny said to Lee once they’d lined up before the stage. “You guys knocked this thing out of the park. It’s perfect.”

  “Appreciate that, brother,” Lee said. “I’m glad ya could make it. Seriously, it just wouldn’t have been right without you here.” He leaned forward to address the whole trio. “Any of you losers.”

  In classic Renegades form, Danny and Hamish responded with looks of sincere gratitude while Link pretended to fart, thus earning him a not-so-subtle “Ahem” from the tall, raven-haired woman in the deep purple dress in the front row.

  “Sorry, baby,” Link mouthed to his wife who sat, caramel-colored legs crossed, next to their two toddlers, Donald and Franklin. “Mostly.”

  Layla frowned back at her husband.

  “Busted,” Danny whispered.

  “You got that too, huh?” Lee whispered back.

  “Ahem.” This time it was Madisyn, sitting next to Layla, and both men fell silent. Meanwhile, Hamish grinned with an expression that seemed to say, See? This is why I’m their favorite.

  Hearing the opening bars of “Pachelbel’s Canon” mixed with the Temptations’ “Earth Angel” fill the speakers, all four men shot up straight, assumed formal postures, and watched as the doors in back swung open to reveal the bridesmaids, then Katie, and finally, Evelyn McKinsey—their bartender, squad-mate, hacker extraordinaire, and one of the best damn friends any of them had ever known—in all of her wedding-day splendor.

  “Ruff ruff, bro,” Danny said, chuckling. He was referring to that night long ago on the Praetorian when he’d warned Lee that until he fessed up about his true feelings for Mac, he had no right to play “Alpha Dog” over who she dated. Granted, that’d been far from the first time Danny’d given that speech. But in the end, it had been the time that’d shaken Lee into listening, and Danny, for one—having seen the duo’s relationship evolve from the start—was glad he had.

  “Dearly beloved,” the pastor began. “We are gathered here today…”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 6: Identified

  “Damn it, Alec!” roared Alystierian High Chancellor Lucius Zier from his throne in the imperial alcazar, his thick gray eyebrows pulled tight in anger over a face marked by age and mounting stress. Commandant Alec Masterson, having returned to Alystier’s capital city of Eurial earlier that morning from a forty-eight-hour absence, rose from his knees on the chamber floor below with his best façade of reverence.

  “Vendale 2 was supposed to be a secure operation,” Zier spat. “So can you please explain to me just how, in the name of the gods, it now stands in ruin?”

  Masterson bowed his head, though he was only too happy to respond. “Sadly, Sire, I have no answers for you,” he said, “except to say that perhaps our decision to reassign the Tenstan and the Delaphon elsewhere to the Rymonian mission appears to have been a misstep on our part.”

  “A misstep on our part?” Zier asked, looking amazed. “Alec, that decision was based solely on your assurance to me that our line would hold without those ships, if attacked. Had I known this outcome were possible, I’d never have authorized their redeployment to Rymonia, no matter how important we’d deemed those talks to be.”

  “Sire, with all due deference, are we sure the Rymonians are the answer here? Surely there’s another way to—”

  “There is no other way. Not with the ASC encroaching on our rim territories. Need I remind you, Commandant, that when we lost the Thaylon System, we also forfeited three of our central supply lines to Krenza Province? A Rymonian agreement for safe passage through their space would go a long way in quelling the sting of that hit. But negotiation takes time. They’re cautious people and don’t trust easily, which means it’ll take some effort to gain their acceptance of our proposal. Losses like Vendale, not to mention the garbage headlines that come with them these days, negate my ability to do that.”

  Masterson stifled a proud smirk at that one. This morning’s headline had been perfect. “For what it’s worth, Highness, Vendale 2 wasn’t a total wash. My people did manage to halt the ASC’s incursion eventually.”

  “Yes, eventually. But ‘eventually’ isn’t good enough anymore, Alec. Not with the ASC’s growing number of C-100 ships. Two vessels should’ve never left that much of a gap in our Vendale defenses. But given the speed with which C-100s get in and out of a hot zone, it was all the Aurans needed.”

  “Indeed, Sire, but let us not forget, they didn’t entirely fulfill their objective before jumping away. Our surveyors maintain that at least part of the mine may yet be salvageable. That would at least solve part of our fuel crisis.”

  “It solves nothing!” Zier snapped, launching to his feet with a silken swirl of red, black, and gold robes. “Even if we can salvage part of this mess, how long will that take? And for what—a ten, maybe fifteen percent mineral yield? Our enemies sit back on Kendara with superior technology and a near-limitless supply of caldrasite that we could’ve had a stake in had diplomacy been allowed to run its course.”

  Choosing to hold his tongue, Masterson responded with another bow as the chancellor—looking like a man with his head in a noose—began pacing the marble platform around the throne.

  “We’re stretched too thin,” Zier murmured, as if alone. “Not a decade ago, our ships outnumbered theirs two to one. Now they match us man for man on account of this Mimic training program, and with a resolve that would’ve been unheard of four years ago.” He rubbed his weary eyes. “This war should’ve ended before it began. I should’ve ended it.”

  The old man halted at the edge of the platform and aimed a tired look at the portrait above his throne—the one of his father, Clayton Zier, Alystier’s inaugural chancellor and the legendary general who’d led the Alystierian secession from Aura eighty years ago.

  He’d be ashamed of you, Masterson wanted to say to the current chancellor. The elder Zier would have never let things deteriorate to this point, and he certainly wouldn’t have wasted time haggling for rights with a race of people who would’ve been lucky to last a day versus the imperial fleet. No, he would’ve taken the space by force, installed whatever infrastructure he needed to run it, then moved on to the next target because that was what had to be done in war: fighting. Not talking enemies to death with useless negotiations and foolish diplomacy. Clayton had understood this, and anyone requiring assurance of that need only ask the Beyonder hordes of Aura a hundred and ten years ago. Clayton had known after years of fighting for his life as an insurrectionist that it wasn’t enough to simply beat his foes once he gained the upper hand. He had to break them, and that’s exactly what he’d done by ordering the eradication of their homeworld.

  “Cross us, and be erased from creation.” That had been the defiant message of one great man to an entire race of enslavers—and the Beyonders, whoever they were, had apparently gotten it loud and clear, because they’d never returned.

  “Has Tarsus made any headway with his research?” Zier asked.

  “Sire?” Masterson said, snapping from thought.

  “Our own C-100 program. Has there been any progress?”

  Masterson shook his head. “None to speak of, Sire. Dr. Tarsus says
that unless we can provide him with additional caldrasite samples for a more robust testing throughput, he still believes we’re a year away from our first fully functional beta drive.”

  Zier grunted. “Miles Tarsus. Can someone please tell me how a man with four years of experience in aerospace research and development receives the team-lead on a program of this magnitude? Why not someone like Sam Russell? He oversaw our Phantom project, and he’s got ten times the field expertise.”

  “That may be true,” Masterson said. “But in fairness to Dr. Tarsus, the science directorate did unanimously select him for the role. As I understand it, he’s also worked closely with the contractor given the task of building the actual test-drive.”

  Zier’s entire face contorted. “Yes, and I’m sure Firefall Industries had absolutely no hand at all in Tarsus’s appointment.”

  “I can’t say, Sire. I would point out, however, that it’s likely that almost anyone in Tarsus’s position would encounter problems, what with the caldrasite shortage. That’s making it tough on all of us.”

  “The fleet seems to be managing.”

  “Yes, sir, but barely. At present, 65 percent of our active vessels are running on max-blended rations, leaving the command ships and a handful of advanced recon scouts the only ones operating at peak efficiency. Under those conditions, we’re scarcely managing an 85.6 percent coverage rating for most of our major deployments, and that’s with little or no margin for re-tasking.”

  Zier chewed his lip for a long moment. “What if we close the spread to 84.3? I know that might create a handful of extra gaps in our security net, but assuming they could be managed properly, would that free up enough mineral for Tarsus’s needs?”

  And again, the fearless leader falls back. “Perhaps, Sire. But I’ll need Logistics to rerun the numbers before I can give you a definitive answer on that.”