“Gimme a break, Madisyn. You act like I’ve been doing this for twenty years, and it’s barely been four!”
“That’s true. But you were thirty-three years old in your first fight, and while the Mimic Project went a long way in kick-starting your skills, that still makes you a solid decade older than most of your opponents, minimum. It’s gonna catch up with you, Danny. That’s just the reality of it. And besides—” her expression turned rueful, “—if it’s all the same with you, I’d rather not have my boyfriend on crutches, or worse, when I get my first real vacation with him in years.”
Danny dropped his head. Every fight took its toll on the body in some fashion. It was the nature of the beast, and she was right about that. Sure as he was of his own abilities, Danny also knew that, being honest with himself, he couldn’t expect them to last forever. Nor, for that matter, could he expect Madisyn to stick around if things got bad. That made it as good a day as any for a compromise.
“You’re right,” Danny said, looking up. “You’ve got my word that once this one’s over, I’m out.”
Madisyn chewed her lip. “But why even do this one, Danny? Why take the risk?”
He shrugged. “Okay I’ll admit, my last fight didn’t exactly go as planned. But that wasn’t entirely the other guy. I just let my ego get the best of me.”
“Kinda like right now?”
“No, not like right now. This time I’m one hundred percent, and I know exactly who I’m fighting because I faced him before.”
Madisyn’s jaw dropped. “You mean this is a rematch?”
“Yes, it’s a rematch. But it’ll be different this time. You’ve got to trust me on that.”
She opened her mouth for another protest, but Danny muted her lips with a finger. “I know you don’t like this, Madisyn, and I’m not asking you to. What I am asking is that you trust my judgment. Petty as this sounds, I just don’t want to be defined by my last fight. Don’t misunderstand me. This is not about something as stupid as my leaving a legacy in an amateur sport; it’s about leaving people with a certain image of what I’m made of as a person—an image that, as it stands, looks an awful lot like an overconfident has-been getting crushed by a younger guy then crawling off into retirement. But, if I do this fight…even if I lose…then they have to remember me as the guy who, yes, got beat, but still had it in him to climb back off the matt, dust himself off, and come back for more. That’s how I want them to remember me.”
Madisyn shot a frustrated look at the ceiling. “I swear, Danny, I’ll never understand why you—”
“Not asking you to understand. I’m just asking you to let me finish what I started. That’s it.”
Madisyn rubbed her temples. “Fine, whatever. But so help me, if that credit-grubbing little punk Reegan books you for another one of these, you’d better damn well—”
“Consider him told. After Saturday, Reeg can find somebody else to manage.”
“Promise me, Danny.”
He raised his right hand, as if under oath. “Madisyn Reynolds, you have my word as a soldier and a gentleman, for whatever that’s worth, that after this weekend, I, Daniel Tucker, will never again set foot in a Kachuro ring, or take part in any similarly related and/or associated middle-aged, oat-sowing shenanigans of the sort…period, end of story. We good?”
Madisyn held her glare at him for a second longer before relenting with a nod.
“All right then.” Danny halted at the entrance to his quarters. “What time’s dinner with Katie?”
“1900. I’ll see you there once I’m done in the lab.”
“Got it. I’ll catch you in the OC.”
“Good. Oh, and Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“Try to be on time, okay? I know you’re not thrilled about this, but a lot has changed, for you guys and for Katie. Give her a chance, if for no other reason than she’s your best friend’s sister.” Madisyn wrinkled her nose. “Come to think of it, how about you just do it on the grounds that you owe me right now?”
Danny raised his hand again. “My word as a soldier and a gentleman…blah, blah, blah. Now if there’s nothing else, I’m soaked in Florida summer funk and really craving a shower right now.”
Once she’d gone, Danny stepped inside his room and tossed his duffel onto the lower bunk. “Dinner with Katie Summerston,” he droned aloud. “Fan…tastic.”
“Incoming message,” the comm terminal announced in standard monotone. “Staff Sergeant Tucker, Daniel R. Priority clearance required.”
Happy for the distraction, Danny moved to the desk and pressed his thumb to the ID-pad beside the screen. “Tucker, Daniel R.,” he said, seeing the tiny sliver of green light scan his thumb print. “Authorization code 786-25-Bravo.”
Seconds later, the icons on the terminal’s desktop vanished into the dark-skinned face of Danny’s commanding officer.
“Welcome back, Sergeant,” Command Sergeant Major Noll said. “How was Earth?”
Danny’s look turned lopsided. “A mixed bag as usual, sir. You know how it goes.”
Noll’s expression showed he understood. In addition to being his CO, Noll had also become a mentor of sorts over the years, both on and off the field—though it certainly hadn’t started that way. He’d been a part of the original Mimic Project from the beginning, serving as the group’s lead instructor for their ground training, and initially he’d been among their most vocal critics. In time, though, even he had come around—so much so that when Danny finally enlisted, the sergeant major had fought to have him assigned to his command. A half-decade and fifty-six successful drops later, the pair had shared everything from foxholes to coffee, and a slew of life stories.
“How was the wedding?” Noll asked.
“Now that was nice, sir.” Danny brightened. “No doubt about it. Decent-sized crowd but not a mob, an intimate ceremony but not stuffy or cliché, fantastic food, a Tiramisu wedding cake, and of course…open bar.”
Noll chucked. “Sorry I had to miss it.”
“Don’t suppose you’ll tell me why, this time?”
“Only that it’s classified, like the last three times you asked.”
“Ah c’mon, sir. Ever since we set up our base on Fyndahl, rumors have been swirling around the fleet that something big’s coming down the pike. Throw me a bone here!”
“You know I can’t Danny. All I can say is that the admiral needed me here. That’s it. Now, speaking of covert things, how’d I do on a wedding present?”
“Ah, quite well, actually,” Danny said coyly. “I’d dare say yours was the highlight of the gift table.”
Noll furrowed his brow. “You didn’t go with the waffle iron, did you?”
“Let’s just say, sir, that Mac now has an entirely new respect for your taste in wine, and rightfully so. The ’83 was a fabulous vintage, after all.”
“Wonderful,” Noll grumbled. “So much for last week’s poker night winnings.”
“You’re a generous man, sir,” Danny said before turning serious. “So how’d it go with Kean? He give anything up before we cut him loose?”
“Nothing to speak of. But we didn’t exactly have access to him for long, which is too bad. Kean struck me as the sort that would’ve had lots to say if properly motivated.”
“I know, right? Part of me still hates that I had to forego another shot at that old geezer to light out for Earth.”
“The hand wasn’t enough, huh?”
Danny winced. And here we go again.
“Got to take it easy, son,” Noll said. “I get it. Kean was a self-entitled, corrupt scumbag, but that’s not how we operate, and you know that.”
“He was being an asshole, sir. And let’s be honest…a splintered paw is the least that guy deserves after what his people did to the Kanaan.”
“That’s not your call, Danny, nor is it mine,” Noll said, a bit firmer this time. “I had friends on that crew, too, remember? That still doesn’t give us the right to seek our own vengeance…much as w
e’d like to, sometimes.”
Danny shrugged but got his CO’s point. “Understood, sir. Now, if there’s nothing else, I’ve gotta jet and get cleaned up for dinner later with Madisyn and Katie Summerston.”
Noll’s gaze widened slightly. “Lee’s sister, huh? You were juggling what, three of her friends at one point?”
“Yep,” Danny muttered.
“And you blew them all off by—”
“Uh-huh.”
Noll made a face. “I have to say, Tucker, that was kind of a jerk move on your part.”
“Don’t really wanna talk about it, sir.” Danny hovered a finger over the end transmission key.
“Fair enough. Well, good luck with that. I’ll see you back at Manning for our debriefing.”
“Copy that, sir,” Danny said. “Tucker out.”
* * * * *
Chapter 13: Agenda
After his meeting with the Kurgorian commander, Masterson flew back to the Kamuir’s flight deck. He tossed his breather mask to a deckhand and headed for the lift that would take him to his office on the bridge. What a strange vessel the aliens’ ship had been, unlike anything he’d ever seen. On the outside, it appeared to be almost exclusively made of steel—or metasteel, they’d called it—with only the occasional view port to break up its otherwise slate exterior. Further adding to the ship’s aesthetic oddity had been the thousands of quill-like spires that blanketed much of its hull from bow to stern. By contrast, however, the vessel’s interior had looked almost organic in many respects. And dark, very dark.
Then again, Masterson thought, the Kurgorians’ appearance alone, once he’d seen them out of their armor, should’ve been a sign that little about them was ordinary.
Crossing the threshold into his office, Masterson took a seat at his desk to read the file awaiting his review: Major Langella’s autopsy report. Wasting no time, he opened it and began reading.
Victim suffered massive trauma to the torso, chest, shoulders, and head as the direct result of an apparent cave-in. Eye-witness accounts from two high-ranking officers—both present at the time of the accident—would seem to corroborate this finding, evidenced by the nature and severity of the victim’s injuries, particularly those to the face that ultimately proved fatal.
Masterson eyed the corresponding photos with grim satisfaction. Tricky things, those ancient buildings. Eh, Majo? Though one could hardly imagine a more fitting end for a rat.
Swiping the report off of his screen, Masterson tossed the device onto his desk and slumped back in his chair, his mind on the web of details he’d now need to remember from here on in. The Kamuir was due back in Alystierian space in less than a day, at which time Zier would almost certainly demand answers for the former XO’s fate, among other things. There would be explanations to give, reports to file, inquiries to follow up—all strands of an intricate and well-crafted lie that, if tugged, could unravel it all. He would need to be cautious.
A knock came at the office door.
“Yes?” Masterson swiveled in his chair to see the Kamuir’s new XO enter the room. “Ah, Captain Briggs, come in. I trust all goes well with your transition to second-in-command?”
“Yes, sir,” Briggs said, taking the seat in front of Masterson’s desk. “Thank you for the opportunity.”
“You’ve long since earned it, Captain, even before you came on this mission. Unfortunately, though, our celebration of your promotion will have to wait for another time, as we have business to discuss.”
Briggs clasped his hands in his lap. “Very good, sir. Might I inquire how your meeting with the aliens went?”
“Well,” Masterson said. “It appears that I piqued their interest after all with my mention of the Aurans, and they’re prepared to discuss terms for a treaty with the empire. In the meantime, they’ve agreed to supply us with one of their smaller C-100 vessels for study—a transaction I’d like you to personally oversee.”
“That’s outstanding news, sir.” Briggs shifted in his chair. “However, might I ask that in future meetings, you allow me to pair you with an armed security escort? It is procedure, after all, and I think it’d make the crew feel a touch more at ease.”
“Their rules, not mine. But your suggestion is noted.”
Briggs nodded. “With regard to the ship they’re providing, would it not be simpler to forgo the cargo bay and fly it home?”
“Perhaps, but keeping it in the bay maximizes the number of personnel we can assign to its study. In twelve hours, we touch down in Eurial, at which time the chancellor will no doubt want full control of the vessel. Until then, it’s all ours, and I want to learn everything I can about its technology before my access to it is restricted, if not revoked altogether.”
“Sir, at the risk of sounding ignorant.” Briggs leaned forward in his seat. “You’re the supreme commander of the Alystierian fleet. Is the friction between you and the chancellor so intense that he’d honestly consider cutting you out of the loop? I mean, for gods’ sakes, you led the negotiations to procure this ship from the Beyonders in the first place.”
Masterson raised a finger. “Call them Kurgorians, Captain, not Beyonders. No one—and I mean no one—is to know their true identity, not anyone on the crew nor anyone in the chain of command, until the time is right. Even after a century of absence, the public response to these people is, and always will be, one of fear and disdain for what they did to our ancestors on Aura. Could that change in time if their aid proves the deciding factor in our war with the ASC? Perhaps, but why risk having the public turned against us if we don’t have to?”
“Understood,” Briggs said. “What should I say of them in the official report?”
“Nothing more than exactly what they are—the native inhabitants of the Rynzer Expanse. We know little else about them at this time, which makes them no different from any other race we’ve encountered on first contact.”
“And the other ships, sir? The ones that’ve gone missing over the years?”
Masterson thought about it. “Chalk them up to…erratic spacial anomalies, native to the region. Studies are ongoing.”
“And the supporting LORASS data?”
“You’ll have it by the time you file the report.”
“Very good, sir,” Briggs said. “Commandant, you do realize that the chancellor will never agree to an alliance with these people—not quickly, anyway. He’ll want to take his time and meet them first, explore them a bit. Then, if he’s satisfied with their intentions, maybe he’ll back a motion to parliament, but not before.”
Masterson pursed his lips. “Oh, I’m quite aware of our chancellor’s overinflated need for due diligence, though I highly doubt he has the political capital left to enforce things anymore. He’s simply lost too much ground in recent years, and the ministers of parliament know that. As for the friction you spoke of before…” Masterson snorted. “Well, let’s just say that the bad blood between Zier and me runs far deeper than you or anyone else knows, and for good reason.”
Briggs studied the wall, as if deliberating whether or not to say something. “I know of your wife, sir. Not the chancellor’s daughter, mind you, but the other one…the one nobody knows about.”
Masterson raised an eyebrow.
“Colonel Troy was my DI way back in boot camp, and he and I went out for drinks the night before I transferred to the Kamuir. He told me about what happened…with Delarla and the boy. He also said your son found his way back to you as a soldier years later, only to fall in battle. Sir, I am truly sorry.”
Masterson regarded Briggs with a mixture of interest and betrayal at the mention of his retired XO. “That man never could hold his liquor, or his tongue, for that matter, once he’d had too much of the first.”
“In fairness, sir, he never breathed a word of that story to anyone else.”
“So why you then, Captain?” Masterson asked, angry that this darkest of personal stories had been outed to someone without his consent.
Briggs raise
d his shoulders. “I don’t know, sir. That’s a question you’d have to ask him. But if I may…I think it’s because he has a pretty solid eye for what you like in an officer, and he thought I fit that bill. That and, well…Troy also knew that I lost my family, too. When I was sixteen. My parents served together on the Rulstoy.”
Things connected in a flash. “Your father was Kenneth Briggs? The Kenneth Briggs? The Hammer of Santee?”
Briggs nodded, and suddenly Masterson knew where the young man’s talent had come from.
Twenty-two years ago, Lt. Cdr. Kenneth Briggs had served at tactical aboard the Alystierian warship Rulstoy when the vessel had been rushed into an emergency defensive redeployment to Santee, a planet just inside the Alystierian-Auran border. By all accounts, the battle had been a rout in favor of the ASC. However, most historians agreed that had it not been for the actions of the elder Briggs, the imperial death toll that day would’ve been substantially higher.
In the face of his ship’s imminent demise, and seeing most of his fellow bridge officers dead around him, Briggs had assumed command, and in doing so—gods knew how—he bought his crew the time they needed to abandon ship and get clear of the kill zone. From there, the man posthumously dubbed “The Hammer” had set the Rulstoy on a nose-first collision course with the Aurans’ lead ship, and the rest, as they say, was history.
“That’s an impressive pedigree you have there, Captain,” Masterson said, noting the man’s visible unease.
“I appreciate it, Commandant. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to keep that fact under wraps. I’ve spent my entire career getting people to take me on my own merits and not my name. I’d rather this commission not be any different.”
A reasonable request. Masterson returned to the matter at hand. “Very well then. The Kurgorians will turn over the C-100 ship within the hour, and I want you to be there when they do. Once it’s in our possession, I want it quarantined in Cargo Bay 4 for immediate analysis. Lt. Ovies will take it from there.”
“Understood, sir.” Briggs straightened and saluted. “Will there be anything else?”
Red Sky Dawning Page 11
