Information Cloud: Science fiction and fantasy series (Tales of Cinnamon City Book 1)

by Peter James West

  'You three play nice,' Mason said over his shoulder as he walked towards the door.

  Bennet followed him, chuckling under his breath until he was a safe distance away. 'No kissing,' he called out as he walked out of the door. The sounds of laughter followed them down the corridor.

  Tenik glanced at the empty tables around the canteen. 'There aren't many people about today,' he said.

  Fredericks nodded, 'It's still quite early. Most of the crew are still sleeping after yesterday's patrols. It was a long day.'

  Edwards shoved a spoonful of green slop into his mouth and chewed without expression. 'What use is sleep. I've put in for a transfer back to Central Command.'

  Tenik shook his head, 'You won't get it.'

  'Sure I will. I filled in the request.'

  Fredericks put down his spoon and swapped it for a fork, 'Do you know how many people send those requests in every day? Thompson needs us out here. She doesn't need any more fat commanders sat in the comfort of Cinnamon City. She has a list of lower officers always waiting to fill those jobs, men who are already living in the Black Towers. This is a one-way trip Edwards. You know that. Your only way out of here is in a body bag. Either that or you leave the Security Forces and do something else.'

  Edwards' eyes went wide, 'Are you mad? What else would I do?'

  'I have no idea,' Fredericks said.

  Tenik stood up and brushed a hand through his hair, 'You're going to have to sort your own life out, Edwards. This counselling session is over. I need to get some sleep before the next alert.'

  'What are you talking about, counselling session? I don't need counselling. I'm just asking questions. Nothing wrong in asking.'

  Tenik walked towards the door and didn't look back.

  'What's eating him?' Edwards said.

  Fredericks shrugged, 'He's just tired - but he's right. There's no way out of here, and there's nothing we can do to avoid the Kamari in this place. We just need to keep our eyes open. It's all we can do.'

  The Alert

  Commander Nick Chambers sat on his shoulder-height bunk with his back against the wall. The ceiling loomed just a few centimetres above his head as his legs dangled over the edge. He could hear the maintenance droids clanking through the ventilation ducts all around him. The wind had blown dust into the external vents overnight, clogging up the heating systems for the third time this week. It was a common problem among the outer stations. The air temperature had dropped, feeling cool against his exposed face, hands and feet.

  Sunrise was still several hours away but Nick had already been awake for longer than he could remember. After the last couple of nights, he had taken to sleeping in his uniform, waiting for the next alert.

  His quarters were basic. His rank didn't earn him any special considerations on a small base like this. He had been granted a single room without any windows. The black ribbed walls did little to lighten his downtrodden mood. His bunk occupied almost a third of the available floor space. It was bolted to the wall in case of earthquakes, but Nick couldn't remember the last time that had happened. No one at the station had ever experienced more than the smallest of tremors.

  An old, red padded chair sat on the opposite side of the room. It was made out of some kind of glossy synthetic material that was supposed to be easy to clean. The cushion was lumpy and the round-topped arms were too close together to allow any comfortable slouching positions. Several black marks showed where Nick had shot it with his impact pistol during some of his more frustrated moments. The chair looked as though it had been on a few combat operations of its own.

  Less than an arms length from the chair, a mirror had been attached to the wall with a small washbasin jutting out beneath it. The mirror reflected an image of Nick sitting on his bunk with dark shadows under his eyes, and the simple black desk and drawers that were embedded underneath it. The outer stations had little to offer in the way of comfort, but it was enough for what Nick needed.

  He watched his steaming white breath pluming in front of his face as he held a short knife in his right hand. Its blade was sharp and its handle was tightly bound with string. It felt comfortable in the palm of his hand as he pressed its sharp edge against a small piece of pine that he turned back and forth with a well-practised scraping motion. The blade cut into the soft wood with ease, lifting fine curling shavings that fell into his lap.

  What had once been a shapeless piece of wood was finally starting to look like a wild mountain flower. Each cut made the petals more distinct. The carving felt small in his large hands, but he knew it would fit perfectly in his daughter's small palm. He had promised Lisa it would be ready for her birthday, and Nick always kept his promises.

  Loud klaxons blared out across Beacon Station. Nick flinched, cutting his finger. A hiss escaped his lips as a thin trickle of blood ran down into the palm of his hand. There was never any damned peace at Beacon Station. The alerts were getting more and more frequent every day.

  Tucking the knife into his jacket's inside pocket, Nick slipped the wooden flower under his pillow, taking care not to get any blood on it. The flower would be blue when he found time to paint it. Red reminded him of nothing but war.

  The klaxons were deafening, echoing off every wall. Nick jumped down from his bunk, landing on the balls of his feet, and turned immediately to face the desk that was embedded into the wall underneath it. His hand-held console lay on top of the desk, its display flashing with an urgent orange warning. Nick entered his security code and acknowledged the alert before disabling the klaxons. It was against standard procedures to disable the klaxons before a minute had elapsed, but Nick's ears had heard enough, and everybody in the station would be aware of the alert by now.

  With the ringing of the klaxons still fading from his ears, he stepped over to the washbasin and thrust his finger under a stream of cold water. A bloodstained bandage stood on the basin's rim. This wasn't the first time he had washed his own blood away. The bleeding soon subsided. Nick shook his hand and stared at the wound. It was a shallow cut. It would heal in no time.

  He splashed cold water over his face, hoping it would make him feel more alive, but when he looked up, a stranger stared back at him from the mirror. The doubts were growing inside him again, eating away at his heart like some foul fungus. Memories flashed through his mind. Enemies broken, friends dead - just another day at Beacon Station. It was the thirty-eighth day of his tour of duty, and he knew now that he'd made a terrible mistake accepting Thompson's transfer order. It was a mistake that he knew he would never be able to take back.

  Nick punched the mirror hard, shattering the glass so he didn't have to see the man that he had become. Several jagged pieced fell onto the floor, smashing around his bare feet. When he glanced down, he saw a thin trickle of blood running between his knuckles and dripping onto the floor. Nick felt nothing. How long could this go on?

  He barely heard the notification chime. Turning, he returned to his desk and picked up his console. An encrypted transmission had just arrived from Central Command. The orders were no surprise. He had been dreading them, but in a strange way he welcomed them too. They gave him a reason to stop staring at the curved black walls of his claustrophobic quarters, releasing him temporarily from the cyclic disturbing thoughts that had plagued his mind every night since he had first arrived at Beacon Station.

  Nick clenched his bleeding fist and smiled as he plucked a small glass splinter from the back of his hand. The pain helped him shake off the familiar feeling of emptiness inside, leaving his thoughts free to run through drill procedures, protocols, strategies and rosters. An endless list of scenarios and countermeasures sped through his mind.

  Soon, Admiral Gail Thompson would call from Central Command to brief him on the nature of the alert, but for now, Nick knew what he had to do. He was already strapping on his boots and looking towards the impact pistol that was hanging on the wall beside the door. He could already hear the familiar sounds of Beacon Station coming to life: the whi
rring vibration of ventilation fans, and the distant thunder of equipment shuttles carrying their payloads of water, food, and munitions. Boots pounded the gangways and corridors nearby.

  He allowed himself one last moment to consider the ghostlike figure that he had become, and then got to his feet, holstered his impact pistol, and activated the door release mechanism.

  Mobilise

  Nick stood waiting as the door slid silently into the bulkheads above, immediately replaced by a cool breeze from the blue-lit corridor outside. Rachel stood facing him, immaculate in her uniform, as though she had spent her whole life preparing for this very moment. There was a natural calmness about her that Nick had never been able to match. She was always ready to make hard decisions and take charge of the situation - given the opportunity. She would make commander before long. She was smart and tough, and that counted for a lot in a place like Beacon Station. Only the toughest could survive this far from the city.

  She stood watching him as strobe lights played across her neck and jaw line, sparkling in the reflections of her deep brown eyes. 'Commander Chambers, K2 Unit has been mobilised. We'll be ready to launch in four minutes.'

  Cords of muscle flexed in her neck as she spoke. She had always kept herself in great shape. Her genetics were good too. That was one of the things that had first drawn him to her.

  'Welcome back,' Nick said. 'When did you return?'

  'Last night. Commander Harris sends his regards.'

  'Harris? Of course. He requested you again, didn't he? You might be the only one with a ticket out of here.'

  Rachel shook her head.

  Nick was Rachel's commanding officer, no longer her lover. He wished it could be different, but her expression gave no hint of what she was thinking. She could stand that way for hours and not so much as blink. What thoughts circled behind those deep brown eyes?

  Nick glanced to his right, seeking an excuse to break eye contact. He wanted to keep his thoughts to himself. He searched the dim corridors for Major Collin Edwards, but as usual, the man was nowhere to be seen.

  Rachel followed Nick's gaze, her short black hair swirling in the draft of the ventilation fans above her head. 'Major Edwards is on his way too,' she said.

  When she smiled, the intensity of her eyes softened and her barriers were lowered. The moment was gone almost before it begun, but for Nick it brought back memories of their lives together. Did she still care for him? No. It had just been his imagination, but it affected him more than he cared to admit. What a fool he had become.

  Staring towards the empty corridors of the accommodation block, Nick tapped the comms unit on his jacket collar. 'Edwards, report your status.'

  There was no response. He heard a brief clicking on the line, and then nothing.

  Nick's jacket buttons strained as he took several long, slow breaths. Something felt off today. He couldn't explain it. It was just a feeling. Maybe he had picked up some bug from the crew? Rachel's presence often had odd effects on him too. He couldn't trust his own skin when she was around.

  He was about to hail Edwards again when a loud burst of static blared through his comms unit.

  'Major Collin Edwards reporting. K3 mo...' His words trailed off into a low hum.

  'What is your estimated launch time?' Nick said.

  More static filled his ears, painfully loud this time.

  'Damn it, Edwards! Can you sort that fucking comms pack out. Use your backup set.'

  'F... Dish.'

  'What?'

  'Com... D... Seven minutes —'

  'Move it!' Nick killed the comms call, silencing the annoying static noise.

  Remembering Rachel was still standing beside him, Nick turned to face her. She looked distracted, puzzling over some problems of her own perhaps. The beginnings of crow's feet played in the corners of her eyes. He couldn't remember having seen them before. They would hardly be noticeable to anyone else, but they were noticeable to him. Maybe he was the cause of her new wrinkles, or maybe he thought too much of himself? None of them were getting any younger.

  He remembered holding Rachel's face in his hands and pressing his lips against hers. She had smelt of roses that night. Sweat had glistened across her back. The memory was still strong but he knew that those times would never return. He caught himself gazing too deeply into her eyes, wondering why it had all gone so wrong. Something inside him was broken. He knew that much. The time for wondering had long since gone. It didn't matter anymore. None of it mattered. They had all grown up so fast since then. Wasn't suffering the fastest way to grow? Nick chuckled to himself, a quiet joyless laugh that faded away before it even escaped his lips.

  Rachel was looking at him again. 'Your hand,' she said, glancing down at his bloodstained fingers.

  'It's nothing,' Nick said. He could feel warm blood trickling slowly down his palm, and he could hear it dripping onto the steel mesh floor below. It was nothing compared to the pain that he felt inside.

  'I'm needed with my unit,' Rachel said.

  Nick broke free of his wandering thoughts. He looked her in the eyes and nodded as she broke into a trot and headed towards the loading bay. Her hips swayed from side to side until she disappeared through a side hatch, closing it behind her.

  Nick stood in the doorway of his quarters, feeling suddenly alone. His gaze drifted along the corridor until he saw the long metal ramp that descended towards the lower levels. Hatches lined the sides of the ramp, leading down to loading bays that were hidden beneath the station. Fifteen RS6 personnel carriers occupied the loading bays on a typical day. Three of them were undergoing major repairs after yesterday's patrols. The others were combat ready and fully charged.

  Nick stepped out into the corridor, listening to the sound of running boots on the level above. Beacon Station had a permanent crew of two hundred soldiers. Nick had often thought that permanent was a strange word to use for men who sometimes arrived, served and died in the same week. He had sent several reports to Central Command, telling them that the station needed a larger crew and better equipment, but it had become quickly apparent that they didn't care at all. Central Command had refused to send any more soldiers. The Security Forces were a finite resource, he had been told. The fact that most of the crew at Beacon Station were involved in combat operations every day didn't seem to bother Admiral Gail Thompson at all. When were they supposed to recover from their injuries? When were they supposed to find peace from their own minds?

  Nick tilted his head from side to side, stretching the taut muscles in his neck as he gathered his thoughts for the operation ahead. A lot of men and women had put their trust in him. Their lives were in his hands now. Nick knew only too well how easily those lives could be lost. Eighteen members of the Security Forces had been killed under his command so far. He remembered every one of their faces.

  When he had expressed his concerns about the high casualty rate, Thompson had told him that he was doing much better than the previous head of Beacon Station. Nick had subsequently discovered that his predecessor had been killed during his first week. With each new combat operation, he had to clear his mind and start again. Memories could kill as easily as bullets.

  A high-pitched whine told him that one of the RS6 personnel carriers was powering up its combat systems in the hangars below. Nick stepped back into his quarters, grabbing the wooden flower from beneath his pillow, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  When he left his quarters for the second time, he knew that he could not return. He locked the door using his wrist console and headed down the corridor towards the lower ramp. A memory stirred. "Stay safe", a friend had once said - a friend who was now dead.

  Nick walked along the mesh walkway, heading for the hangars. Pale blue footlights dimmed as he passed them, suddenly replaced by bright white halogen lamps overhead. Nick's retinal implants automatically reduced the amount of light entering his eyes so he didn't have to squint. All through the base, systems were coming online. Nick ducked under a loose
ventilation panel and headed for the second loading bay, where his own unit would be waiting for him.

  The Breach

  Riser Trent slouched in his chair, leaning back to the point where it would have broken again if he hadn't already welded some old table legs to it. His stomach pressed painfully against the rickety desk in front of him as he let out a long, slow yawn. Scratching a noodle loose from his riotous beard, he tried to remember eating it, but couldn't. It wasn't as though there was anybody to disapprove of his appearance down here. The cramped windowless basement had been his home for as long as he could remember.

  A dusty console sat lopsided and unloved on the battered old desk in front of him. It was covered in fingerprints and had more faults than Riser could even remember. He had complained about it to Neech every month but still nothing had been done about it.

  Riser's antique collection of mechanical animals sat in various poses on each side of his console, some arranged into small groups and others standing on their own. He'd been collecting them ever since he was a kid. He wasn't really sure why he had collected them, but he had to admit they brought him an odd sense of comfort at times. Maybe he had been living alone for too long? There was a silver rabbit that hopped on the spot when you stroked its back, a black metal woodpecker that squawked, and several squirrels and foxes made from various coloured composite materials. Some of them were attached to his control systems while others were just amusements he had gathered over the years.

  Riser was halfway through an impressive yawn, when the black woodpecker started bashing its beak against his desk in manic bursts. At first, his sleepy eyes just stared at it without comprehension. The angry sounds of rock music faded to the buzzing of a distant wasp as he pushed his headphones back, allowing them to drop around his thick neck. The woodpecker hadn't moved for months. Riser had forgotten what it's manic dance meant.