by J. L. Doty
After Mathius’s lesson with the knucks, the beatings ended and they began his training with weapons. They gave him a semi-automatic rifle, not a grav gun or modern weapon, just an old-fashioned, chemically-powered slug thrower. They told him it wouldn’t pierce fully-powered, plast combat armor, but their rebel enemies were limited to non-powered, light body armor, and with rare exception, almost all of the government troops were not much better equipped.
“If you do come up against powered armor,” Cranoch told him, “run like hell. You’re probably fucked anyway, but it don’t hurt to run.”
He learned to strip the rifle, clean it and reassemble it. For a good month he did nothing but dry-fire the weapon at targets in the distance, then strip and clean it again. Then one day Cranoch handed him one, single round of ammunition, saying, “It’s live-fire time, kid.”
Not even for the briefest instant did Mathius consider turning his gun on Cranoch. The man wore a sidearm, and rather conspicuously kept his hand always resting on the butt of the pistol. And if Mathius did shoot the rebel, a number of Cranoch’s friends stood nearby watching. They also wore sidearms or carried rifles, and Mathius had no doubt their weapons were fully loaded.
Mathius removed the rifle’s magazine and loaded the single round into it. He jammed the magazine back into place, pulled the breechblock back and released it. It slid into place with a loud, mechanical snap and the momentary, high-pitched ring of metal against metal. He raised the rifle to his shoulder, took careful aim at the target, and pulled the trigger. The kick of the weapon against his shoulder startled him more than the loud explosion and burst of smoke that erupted from the muzzle. During the last two years he’d grown accustomed to the pop of gunfire both near and far.
Cranoch lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes and examined the target. He lowered the binoculars and said, “Complete miss.”
He handed Mathius another round and said, “Try again, kid.”
It took Mathius three tries to even hit the target, and he didn’t come anywhere close to a bullseye. Firing one round at a time, a few rounds a day, he eventually proved to be a reasonably good marksman. And slowly, little by little, Cranoch stopped resting his hand on the butt of his sidearm. About a month after he’d fired his first live round, Cranoch handed him a full magazine. Holding the magazine in his hand, Mathius looked at the older man and raised an eyebrow.
Cranoch grinned. “We joined forces with one of the government factions, and they’re supplying us now; more ammo, better rations and medicine, everything.”
Mathius recalled the boxes he’d unloaded stamped with the symbol of the Kelk Supremacy, but he kept that thought to himself.
Six months after joining the rebels they gave Mathius a camouflage jacket with his name crudely stenciled above the left breast pocket, and he went out on his first patrol. By that time Timor and Phillan had become experienced old-hands at live-fire patrols. As a rookie, Mathius stayed close to them while they stayed close to Cranoch, all of them part of his squad, which was part of Mercier’s platoon. Mathius noticed that Timor now carried his rifle and walked with a swagger he hadn’t displayed before. Thankfully, Phillan didn’t exhibit the same bravado.
They swept through a neighborhood that had been reasonably prosperous before the rebellion. Under Mercier’s and Cranoch’s tutelage, Mathius had practiced door-to-door sweeps with the other rebels in the squad, but they didn’t exercise any of that kind of caution now. Mercier split the platoon up by squad and sent each to search a house.
Mathius, Timor and two other rebels followed Cranoch to the front door of one residence. Cranoch hammered on the door with the butt of his rifle. He turned to Mathius and said, “If they don’t answer quick-like, we kick the door down and it goes even worse for them.”
When the owner of the property answered the door, Cranoch elbowed him out of the way and walked past him. Mathius and the rest followed into a small living room.
“Spread out,” Cranoch said. “Search everywhere. Take anything of use. Anyone gives you trouble, bring ’em to me.”
Mathius accompanied one of the older soldiers. They searched several rooms and Mathius noticed that his comrade damaged or destroyed almost anything not of use to the rebels. They slowly accumulated a small pile of goods near the front door, things like food, batteries, tools, and medicine.
The owner pleaded with Cranoch, “Please, that’s all the food we have. Leave us something or we’ll starve.”
Cranoch grabbed the man and slammed him against a wall. The man froze, his eyes wide with fear. Cranoch looked over his shoulder and said, “Timor, come here.”
The young boy crossed the room warily and stopped, facing Cranoch and the civilian. Cranoch stepped away from the man, looked at Timor and said, “Well, soldier, do your duty.”
Timor’s eyes blinked rapidly. He looked at Cranoch, then at the civilian, then at Cranoch.
Cranoch grinned, and quite visibly focused his eyes on Timor’s rifle, nodding his head as if giving the boy permission. “Be a good boy, and you’ll get a special reward for dinner tonight.”
Timor’s eyes stopped blinking, and the corners of his mouth slowly turned upward until he too grinned. Then he giggled and glanced down at his rifle, a look of wonder on his face. His head swiveled as he examined it from end to end, muzzle to stock. He giggled again, raised his rifle and shot the man in the face. The fellow dropped like a sack of rocks and flopped onto his side. Timor leaned over him, looked at the ruin of his head, then looked at Mathius and grinned.
Cranoch said, “Now that’s a good boy.”
The older man looked at Mathius. “See that, kid? Timor knows how to be a good boy.”
Mathius gulped and struggled to hold down his meager breakfast.
During their return to the compound, Timor hiccoughed frequently, then emitted that strange, shy giggle.
That night Mathius followed his usual routine of recalling the young girl’s empty eyes and her light-brown hair caked with half-dried blood. He recalled the grimace of pain on his father’s face when Mercier had destroyed his knee, and the way his head had exploded when the rebel had killed him. To that he added the look in Timor’s eyes as he stood over the man he had murdered: joy at taking a life, and fear, and wonder. But worst of all, nothing remained of the little boy Mathius had first met sitting in the shade of the outbuilding. Mercier, Cranoch and the rebels had turned him into something inhuman and uncaring, a maniacal little soldier carrying a loaded gun, with no understanding of what he’d done. Mathius added that to the list of accounts they must reconcile, though he’d probably never have a chance to collect.
••••
Nikaela’s third year at the academy had gone well, and she finished it still at the top of her class. All academy cadets spent the gap between their third and fourth year on active duty, many in dangerous situations, a form of live training from which some did not return. Nikaela’s orders instructed her to report to the hunter-killer Skuldev, docked at Viktorkinde Prime. Her orders said nothing about her mission or responsibilities, which struck her as rather vague, and sparked her curiosity all the more.
Before taking a shuttle up to the space station orbiting Viktorkinde, she reviewed Skuldev’s specifications. The ship had a complement of sixty-four men and women. It was all power plant, drive, and transition torpedoes. It had half a dozen defensive pods, but its primary means of protecting itself were speed and stealth. If it must depend on the pods for anything more than the occasional defensive shot, the ship would be in serious trouble.
When she reported to the OOD aboard Skuldev, she asked the fellow what her assignment would be. He looked at a small hand terminal for a moment, frowned and said, “You’re not assigned to the crew. We’re merely transporting your team.”
Her curiosity piqued, she asked, “Where are we going?”
He shrugged and said, “I don’t know. After you stow your gear, find Command Superior Eindride. You’ll be reporting to him, and he may be able to tell you more.�
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They assigned her to a bunk in a cabin she shared with three other junior officers. She stowed her kit, then found Eindride seated alone at a table in the officer’s mess, a steaming cup of hot tea in front of him. He was quite handsome, with sparkling red irises, and a wonderfully bluish tint to his skin.
She approached him, saluted and said, “Maestra Eindride, I am Cadet Nikaela Vreekande. I was told to report to you.”
He returned the salute casually and said, “Relax, Cadet Vreekande. Sit down. If you want, get some tea or something.”
She sat down across from him. She opened her mouth to say something, but he raised a hand, silencing her.
“I know,” he said. “Your orders are quite vague, and that has aroused your curiosity. But curiosity isn’t always a good thing.”
That sounded odd. She said, “May I ask where we’re going?”
He gave her a slight grin. “You may ask, but I can’t tell you. Only the captain and I know our final destination, and that will remain sealed until we’re well under way.”
She asked, “Some sort of covert operation?”
He leaned back in his chair and stared at her, saying only, “You tell me.” Apparently, he wanted to see how much she could glean from those purposefully vague orders.
“A hunter-killer,” she said. “The perfect vessel to help us get somewhere without being detected.”
He didn’t move a muscle, but continued to stare at her in silence.
She continued, “So something clandestine. But I’m too junior, and not trained in Special Forces combat, so I doubt it will be some sort of covert assault or combat operation. More like surveillance, or something of that nature.”
His grin broadened, exposing white teeth. “Good. You are smart, though you’ve managed to draw the same conclusions as the rest of the crew. What I can tell you is that it’s more of a liaison operation, not surveillance. The Commonwealth has their hands full with a certain situation I’m not at liberty to discuss at this time. It’s generating a lot of disagreement within their government and in the highest echelons of ComSecCorps. Our job is to irritate the wound as much as possible without being caught at it.”
Nikaela had a hundred questions, but she knew Eindride would not answer them, at least not at the moment. Late that afternoon, a senior noncom and two riflewomen joined their team, and over the next three days, Nikaela learned that all three of them were quite taciturn. None of them exhibited any curiosity about their orders or destination, and she decided she would be wise to put the guesswork aside.
Once Skuldev launched and they up-transited out of the Viktorkinde system, Nikaela learned that they would be in transit for eighteen days. At Skuldev’s maximum transition drive of four thousand lights, they would cross almost two-hundred light-years. And that would put them quite close to Commonwealth space, though still well outside of it.
With no duties aboard ship, boredom quickly set in. She begged the XO to assign her as a spacer apprentice to some sort of station so she could at least spend the time training in shipboard functions. She also considered taking Eindride as a lover. He was quite handsome and very attractive, and a pleasant tryst would help occupy her time. But rumor had it that he had seen his last promotion, and she didn’t want to saddle herself with a relationship that might prove disadvantageous to her own career.
Nine days into the journey, Eindride revealed their destination. Nikaela looked up what she could find on their target, a little known planet in a system claimed by neither the Kelk nor the Commonwealth. It had a single continent in the midst of a vast ocean, and in the past had boasted a strong agricultural base supported by modern technology. But most importantly, its population of twenty million residents had a difficult time getting along with one another. It was also located in the neighborhood of several other independent star systems: Norandyne, the Tollman Protectorate, the Mikotian Republic, Sarkovie, and the Heraclean Hegemony. They all stood directly in the path of recent Commonwealth expansion, and news feeds had reported some unrest and dissatisfaction at the possibility of forceful annexation.
Eighteen days after leaving Viktorkinde, Skuldev down-transited at the edge of the Novalis system. Nikaela and the rest of Eindride’s small team were then transported in the middle of the night to the surface of Novalis III in a heavily stealthed drop boat.
—End of Sample—
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Acknowledgements
I’D LIKE TO thank Clyde, Tory, Dave and Dan for fixing all my dotted t’s and crossed i’s, and for their invaluable insight, criticism and advice, Karen for both supporting my dream and being my most valuable critic, and Steve Himes, and the whole team at Telemachus, for getting a quality product out the door.
Books by J. L. Doty
Series: The Treasons Cycle
Of Treasons Born
A Choice of Treasons
Stand Alone Novel
The Thirteenth Man
Series: The Gods Within
Child of the Sword
The SteelMaster of Indwallin
The Heart of the Sands
The Name of the Sword
Series: The Dead Among Us
When Dead Ain’t Dead Enough
Still Not Dead Enough
Never Dead Enough
Series: The Blacksword Regiment
A Hymn for the Dying
A Dirge for the Damned
A Prayer for the Fallen
A Requiem for the Forsaken
About the Author
JIM IS A full-time SF&F writer, scientist and laser geek (Ph.D. Electrical Engineering, specialty laser physics), and former running-dog-lackey for the bourgeois capitalist establishment. He’s been writing for over 30 years, with 15 published books. His first success came through self-publishing when his books went word-of-mouth viral, and sold enough that he was able to quit his day-job, start working for himself and write full time—his new boss is a real jerk. That led to contracts with traditional publishers like Open Road Media and Harper Collins Voyager, and his books are now a mix of traditional and self-published.
The four novels in his new hard science fiction series, The Blacksword Regiment, are being released in late 2020. Right now he’s fleshing out ideas for the next book in The Dead Among Us, he’s writing another episode in The Treasons Cycle, and he’s working on a new fantasy series The Deck of Chaos, which he hopes to publish in early 2021.
Jim was born in Seattle, but he’s lived most of his life in California, though he did live on the east coast and in Europe for a while. He now resides in Arizona with his wife Karen and three little beings who claim to be cats: Tilda, Julia and Natasha. But Jim is certain they’re really extra-terrestrial aliens in disguise.
Visit the author’s website at http://www.jldoty.com
Contact the author at [email protected]
