The Army Of Light (Kestrel Saga)

by Fender, Stephen

  Shawn locked eyes with his mechanic, glancing down to Trent’s hands before bringing them back up.

  “Oh, sorry,” Trent replied sheepishly as he manufactured an old rag from his back pocket and attempted to wipe off the offending grease. The scene was more comical than sanitary, as the rag he’d produced was filthier than his hands had been—if that were possible. In fact, Shawn swore it’d made his hands even worse. Looking defeated over the futility of the endeavor, Trent put the rag back into his pocket just as Shawn produced a clean one from his desk and tossed it over.

  While Trent cleaned the last bits of grime off his hands and the chair, Shawn absently rubbed at his eyes and then leaned back again, feeling instantly overwhelmed with the situation. Exhausted, he ran his right hand through his wavy brown hair and began to contemplate how he’d gotten into this situation in the first place. This whole thing was supposed to be about starting over, about making a new, more relaxing life for myself. It was not supposed to be about having my livelihood sitting useless in a hangar, not about being hijacked by pirates, and certainly not about almost plummeting to my death in my own ship. He looked to the slowly sputtering coffee maker on the far cabinet, probably the slowest one in the known universe, realizing with a dash of misery that he’d have to wait another ten to fifteen years before his morning cup would be brewed.

  Par for the course.

  Pushing his past mistakes and poor decisions aside for the moment, he realized that he may well have to pry the information about the status of his ship from Trent. “Just tell me what’s wrong with D,” he said, looking down at the cluttered mound of paperwork on his usually well-organized desk.

  Trent tossed the now thoroughly soiled towel into a metal wastebasket to the right of Shawn’s desk, and then leaned back in his own chair. “Well, the number two and three ventral inverters are blown on the starboard engine. Also, it looks like we have a slight hydraulic leak in the port forward landing strut.”

  Shawn rolled his eyes. “Oh, is that all?”

  “Well, that and the fact that a few of the gauges aren’t working so well.”

  With one hand already on his scalp, Shawn brought the other up to meet it as he rested his elbows on the desktop, his eyes fixed on the stack of bills. “They were working fine when I landed.”

  Trent narrowed his eyes. “You call that a landing?”

  “It was the best I could do.” Shawn had no idea why he was defending himself. He only knew that, somewhere in this whole mess, he was sure that he was the victim. “It’s not like I had a lot to work with. Anyway, which gauges are supposedly not working?”

  Trent removed his soiled ball cap and scratched at the crest of his head. “I’m pretty sure all of them.”

  Shawn couldn’t help but let an exasperated sigh escape his lips.

  “I know, Captain. It’s a bit of a letdown.”

  “Just a small one,” Shawn quipped, holding up his thumb and index fingers in a pinching motion.

  “I have no doubt that I can get her ship shape again,” Trent offered apologetically. “But it’s going to take some time. It isn’t exactly easy getting spare parts for one of these old Mark-IV’s in the middle of nowhere, you know?”

  Shawn’s buried his face in his hands. “How long?”

  Trent smiled and quickly stood up from his chair, then grandly waved a hand in front of his face—as if to swat the world’s slowest imaginary fly. “Don’t worry about a thing, skipper. I’m sure I can have her up and running in less than two weeks.”

  Shawn, his eyes wide in shock, smacked his palms on the desktop. “Two weeks?”

  “Yeah, two weeks, assuming we order the parts from Alpha Unuthal III today. Of course, I might be able to get it done sooner if you can pull some strings with the locals.”

  Shawn fell back in his chair, bringing one hand to his face and slowly massaging the bridge of his nose. “By locals, you mean De Lorme?”

  “Just remember, I wasn’t the one who said it.” Trent held up his hands cautiously. “While I’m sure Jacques De Lorme can steal whatever we need, I’m willing to bet there are other locals who can help us just as easily—at least, ones that are far less likely to kill us, anyway.”

  Shawn cast his eyes to the ceiling. The yellowed plaster was peeling in several places, and a rather large spider had taken up residence in the furthest corner. He let out an exasperated sigh. “Do you think he’s going to be sore about what happened to his shipment to Donatue III?” Shawn asked, instantly reminded of the time he’d wordily asked his mother if she thought his father was going to be upset about him crashing the family hover car through the garage when he was twelve.

  “You’re joking, right?” Trent asked in surprise. “Knowing Jack, he probably hijacked his own shipment just so he could get out of paying you for it.”

  That thought had definitely crossed Shawn’s mind—especially in those last few moments when the pirate’s laser batteries had fried his port retro infusers. That was the trouble with dealing with pirates, and the fast talking Jacques De Lorme was one of the slickest—not to mention one of the best dressed—in the whole sector. In any case, it’d be best to avoid Jacques’ drinking establishment, known by most everyone as Jack’s Place, for as long as possible.

  “Besides,” Trent continued. “I’m sure there are others around here who owe you a favor or two.”

  Shawn pushed himself free from his chair and walked slowly out from behind his wooden desk. “There aren’t, I can assure you. I’ve pulled in every outstanding favor I’ve been owed just to keep this place afloat for the last three months. I think I may even owe some favors of my own. Be that as it may, it seems that everyone expects this ship to be operational and at their beck and call. Everyone has cargo that needs to be ferried in a timely manner, and we do it or we don’t get paid. Need I remind you that some of these shipments fall into the category of, shall we say, questionably legal? We’re near enough to the edge of the Sector Command’s patrol area that friendly assistance is about three weeks distant on a good day. It wouldn’t cause anyone much concern if one more free trader and his wayward mechanic up and vanished, if you get my drift.”

  “Yeah, but… but the locals need us,” Trent said, but his tone failed to be reassuring. “We’re kind of a planetary asset. It’s not like there’s a whole cadre of ships willing to transport the kind of things we move between systems.”

  “Maybe,” Shawn had to agree, and it made him feel even worse. He regretted having to skirt past Sector Command, and he’d done so on more than once occasion, which meant he felt exceedingly bad about it. He usually thought of himself as a good citizen—save for an occasional misstep in judgment. It’d never crossed his mind that someday he might have to blur the line between right and wrong just to put food on his plate. While he’d never stoop to the level of a common pirate, he’d admittedly become quite the opportunist in the last year. Someday, he was sure, he’d have to make amends—one way or another. Hopefully that time was a long way off.

  “We don’t know that for certain,” Shawn continued. “Just because we’re the first ones they usually call on, it doesn’t mean there aren’t others waiting in the wings to pick at our table scraps. And, you better believe that one wrong move on our part is all they’d need to step up and take over our trade routes. Besides, just because the local magistrate gives us a tax break in exchange for discounted shipping, it doesn’t mean we don’t have bills to pay. We have debts like everyone else. Add to the fact that the planetary government isn’t responsible for the upkeep of this ship,” Shawn waived his hand in a grandiose fashion towards Silvia’s Delight parked in the hangar. “If we don’t fly, we don’t make money. If we don’t make money, we can’t buy parts, let alone food.” The thought of a hot breakfast past over his mind, conjuring up images of bacon and eggs, and before he had a chance to expunge the thoughts his stomach growled in protest.

  If he heard it, Trent didn’t seem to pay the sound any mind. “What about all those
credits you saved up during the war? We have reserves, don’t we?”

  Shawn shook his head dismissively. “We talked about this last week. The reserves are going dry. We needed this paycheck from De Lorme. That was the only reason I agreed to turn the run to Averna into a damn three-legged triangle route.” He inclined his head in the direction of his stricken ship. “And you can see how well that decision turned out.”

  “Well, let’s just take out a loan and—”

  “We can’t take out a loan, Trent,” Shawn casually interrupted his friend’s chain of thought.

  “Why?”

  Shawn motioned Trent to follow him out into their small maintenance hangar. The bay, covered on all sides and separated from the weather by a pair of large clamshell like doors, was just large enough to hold the Hypervarion Mark-IV interstellar transport, a full load of cargo, and precious little else. In an inconspicuous corner of the hangar, behind the wounded silver transport, was a stack of square crates twenty feet high.

  “You see those over there?” Shawn asked, pointing to the large boxes with one hand while the other rested on his friends shoulder.

  “Yeah,” Trent said, jerking his head back slightly.

  “Those crates are full of weapons and ammunition. And we’re not talking about pea shooters, either. This is some pretty serious military grade hardware; the kind that can get you a few years in a Unified penal asteroid colony if you get caught peddling it. Every one of those crates has to be hauled to the Port of Welga in three days. They have to get there on time, and under no circumstances can they be late or be delayed, or you and I will be very very unhappy people.”

  “So, what’s that got to do with getting a loan from the bank?”

  Shawn guided Trent over to the nearest crate. He withdrew a small computer tablet from his pocket, pointed it momentarily at the cargo, then handed it to Trent. Due to the poor backlighting of the old device’s screen, Trent had to squint to properly read what was being displayed. “Property of the Bank of Welga,” he read aloud. He cocked his head and slowly turned to face Shawn. “You mean…?”

  “Yep,” Shawn smiled. “The good old locals, my friend.”

  “And we’ve got to… you know?” Trent asked as a look of deep concern crossed his face.

  “That’s right. We sure do. And something tells me Toyotomi Katashi isn’t going to look too kindly on a loan request when his own shipment fails to arrive.”

  With a penchant for mathematics, it didn’t take Trent long to calculate the travel time required to haul the crates all the way to the large trade port on the planet Persephone. “In three days?”

  Shawn placed his right hand back on the mechanic’s shoulder, but quickly realized it was now coated in whatever filth was dusting Trent’s clothing. Unfortunately, without a rag handy, there was nothing he could do to clean it. He dejectedly regarded his soiled palm, then glanced over to Sylvia’s Delight sleeping serenely, albeit broken, and waiting for her next adventure. Beyond the hangar doors, off on the distant horizon, the twin suns of Minos were only now rising, bathing the hangars innards in a soothing orange glow.

  “Yep. In three days.”

  *

  Melissa Graves sat in tears, her once perfectly applied make-up running like twisted roadways down her ivory cheeks. Minutes before, she’d planned to call on an old friend for morning tea. In the blink of an eye, however, her whole world—everything she’d ever known—had been turned upside down and changed for the worse. Her lengthy red hair, once pulled back tightly and tied with a black bow, was now hanging loosely around her shoulders as she attempted to organize the cascade of feelings screaming throughout her body.

  It had started innocently enough with the chime of her doorbell.

  A young man, a Sector Command administrative lieutenant, was there to greet her as she opened it. Having seen a great number of officer’s parade through her life, it didn’t surprise her that his face was unfamiliar. What did strike her was how short he was. At five foot four, Melissa was average height for a woman of thirty two, but she still had to tilt her head slightly downward to see eye-to-eye with the young officer. He had an almost childlike quality about him, a type of impertinence that spoke volumes of the person that he was. And, if there was one thing for certain, it was that Melissa was well trained in reading people instantly. This was definitely a young man who had never faced death on equal terms. His gray dress uniform was spotless, his black shoes shined like mirrors on his feet, and the silver buttons on the front of his coat were at just the right angle to reflect sunlight into Melissa’s green eyes. There was a determined formality to his presence, which Melissa immediately interpreted as a bad omen.

  He had asked for her name and, when she’d provided the information and the proper identity code, he’d promptly handed her a small, unadorned wooden box and an unassuming envelope. Once the items were in Melissa’s hands he offered a quick salute, and then departed as quickly as he’d arrived. She watched as the young man stepped into his olive drab hover car, the standard government vehicle of choice these days, and sped away in a small plume of dust. She stepped back inside, giving one last look in the direction of the departing car before allowing the front door to close itself.

  Knowing her childhood home as well as she did, she deftly maneuvered around the furniture as she looked over the envelope on her way to the study. She glided to the vintage writing desk in the corner of the room, setting the wooden box on its angled surface as she inspected the envelope more closely.

  It was yellowish in color and with no writing on it, save that of her name and prefecture address on Thress. It had been years since she’d seen a handwritten letter, much less received one, and she wondered with curiosity at its contents. Melissa opened the long lower drawer of the desk, remembering that a few weeks ago she’d seen a bladed instrument in there somewhere. After rifling about for a few moments she found just what she was looking for. She momentarily regarded the small, highly polished knife before sliding it along the adhesive side of the envelope and withdrawing its contents.

  Dear Miss Graves,

  Unified Sector Fleet Command, in conjunction with the Office of Personnel for the Unified Collaboration of Systems, wishes to inform you of the disappearance of your father, Admiral William B. Graves. While Sector Command has made every effort to discover the location of your father, we regret to inform you that we are, at this time, unable to determine his current whereabouts. Due to the nature of his last assignment, we are incapable of disclosing any further information on this matter. Sector Command wishes to inform you that Admiral Graves freely chose this assignment, and he fulfilled it to the highest standards of military excellence. Should it be determined that Admiral Graves has ceased to be, it should be noted that he gave his life for his service and the ideals that he fought for, and will not soon be forgotten.

  Regards,

  Admiral K. L. Swanson

  Unified Sector Fleet Command Headquarters

  Melissa bit her lower lip, almost shredding the letter right then and there as she fought back the simultaneous waves of anger and sorrow that washed over her. Ceased to be? Only a computer could be so cold, and only Sector Command could be so callous as to have one of those machines compose such a letter! I can’t believe they would have the gall to send me this. Granted, she’d likewise been guilty of having the computer at her office send automatic letters in the past, but this was far from the mundane writings she was used to dictating. In the end, after she had read the letter a second time, she delicately placed it in the envelope and on to the table top.

  She gazed out of the large window in the study that overlooked a sprawling park beside her residence. Seeing the beautiful sunny morning that was alive in its entirety, tears began slowly rolling down her cheeks. Somewhere in the distance she could discern a dog barking, and then a few hover car horns in the vicinity. Beyond the park a gleaming new office complex was going up, stretching nearly a mile into the sky. The familiar sounds of the
world started to press on her ears, despite the overwhelming feeling that the life she’d known was now changed irrevocably.

  In truth, she’d always known something like this might happen. When you have parents in the military, it was something that they tried to teach you from a young age. Still, even in her grief stricken state, she wondered why her vid-phone wasn’t ringing. Surely they would have called by now, not that she wanted to speak to any of them.

  She averted her reddening eyes from the beautiful sunny day outside, reaching for the wooden parcel that had been delivered alongside the letter. It was a small container, perhaps eight inches on each side and half as tall, made from pine or some similar soft wood. The hinged lid was secured several times over with a heavy twine-like string wrapped around the container. It had no distinguishing marks on it; save for a small etched brass plate near the front opening that identified the owner as William “Wild Bill” Graves. Melissa managed a diminutive smile, remembering when her father would occasionally recount stories of his fighter pilot exploits during the Galactic War, and how Wild Bill was always being asked to save the day in one form or another.

  Resolved to discover the contents of the package, Melissa reached again for the gleaming handle of the letter opener and gave it a closer inspection. She read aloud the words etched across the blade. “Unified Sector Command Fleet, Carrier Strike Assembly 12, USCS Fahrenwald, CM-5, 2306-2311.” 2306. The first year of the Galactic War. She rubbed her thumb over the smooth ivory handle, right above the emblazoned logo of her father’s former fighter squadron. With a deep sigh she aligned the blade and began cutting into the heavy string encircling the package, but was instantly stopped by a familiar sound just as the blade made contact with the second layer of twine.

  Her vid-phone was chiming the distinctive, pre-programmed ringtone that told her who it was that would be calling at this precise moment.