Mako (The Mako Saga: Book 1)

by Ian J. Malone

  Even now, every fiber of his being knew that was his destiny—his purpose—and he’d known this to be true for as long as he could remember. Dating all the way back to the beginning, when his parents had so cruelly abandoned him to the fates—among the sewers and gutter trash of the Alystierian capital city of Eurial—even then he’d known. Some men might’ve been bitter at having been handed such an atrocious lot, but not Masterson; he’d been grateful for it. It had made him strong and resourceful—taught him to survive by whatever brutal means he had to, and at age 17, when he finally took that hallowed oaths to join the Imperial Guard, he could feel that destiny falling into place around him.

  Success came easily to Masterson after that, in large part because his commanding officers quickly realized his propensity for getting results, though most had little desire to know how he’d achieved them. His confirmed kill numbers spoke for themselves, and while many lacked the taste for his brutal flair, they found it a highly useful asset. Killing had come easy for him in the battlefield—probably because he’d killed for so much less prior to stepping foot on it.

  By age 19 he was already a sergeant, a lieutenant by 21, a lieutenant commander by 26. Then at age 31, he became the youngest soldier in Alystierian history to earn the rank of colonel, and assume command of his own ship, the Destroyer Myralord.

  Masterson’s fiery reputation as a rising star had become well known by that time, and his accolades only increased, though his popularity remained primarily limited to the military men and women who knew him.

  That all changed, however, when four years later, an agrarian race of aliens happened upon Phalkirk—a largely uninhabited world just inside the Rellian border—having no idea of its status as an Alystierian world… they would pay a heavy price for that ignorance.

  Fueled by the propaganda machine of the press, who paralleled the unwanted incursion to the Beyonder invasion that had nearly wiped out their ancestors on Aura so many years earlier, the public went wild with cries for swift action—cries that Masterson was only too happy to oblige. In a single, blood-soaked night, Colonel Alec Masterson went from being a champion of the fleet to the messiah of the Alystierian people.

  In addition to rampant professional and public acclaim, the triumphant victory had also earned him the eye of the chancellor’s daughter herself, and a year later, the two were married before a rejoicing crowd of thousands. In retrospect, some might’ve seen this as the peak of his success, but at the time, in his mind, it was only another step toward a far more rewarding end. In truth, he’d hated Kara. He’d found her pretentious and arrogant—a brash, nagging shrew whose obnoxious sense of royal self-entitlement was a testament to her coddled upbringing, and he detested her for that.

  Alas, their union had made him the clear frontrunner for commandant someday, and thus, it was a necessary evil that he would have to tolerate—for a while, anyway.

  Kara’s eye wasn’t the only one he’d drawn at that time of his life. Since Phalkirk, many women had been all too eager to share his bed—some he’d denied and some he hadn’t—though that all ended when, three years into his marriage, a fiery young ensign with starlit blonde hair, stunning golden eyes, and a sparkling reputation as a first class ball-breaker gained assignment to the Myralord. Her name was Staff Sgt. Delarla Reese, and never in his 38 years had he ever seen anything so breathtakingly beautiful.

  Passionate, ambitious, dedicated, and driven for success with a ferocity matched only by his own, Masterson loved her from the first moment he laid eyes on her.

  The affair remained a closely guarded secret for the next year and a half, known only to Captain Tavarous—his dear friend and second in command—plus a handful of guards who could be trusted to not ask questions. Extramarital affairs were severely frowned upon in Alystierian law, and were they discovered, Masterson knew the ramifications to both of them would be dire.

  Still, it was the happiest 18 months of his life, a time when passionate dreams and emotions that once he could’ve never imagined possible flourished like the crops themselves. For a time, even his bloodthirsty lust for power began to wane with the ever-shifting priorities of his complicated existence.

  On the eve of the couple’s second year together, and after months of anguished equivocation, Masterson made the decision to end it with Kara. By then, there was little point in continuing the charade any further. Delarla was pregnant, a fact that could only be concealed for so long, but beyond that, he loved her more than his own life and the thought of carrying on with this dual existence nauseated him. Furthermore, he was fiercely determined to be to this child the father that he himself had never had, and to go forward with the status quo precluded his ability to do that. Whatever the cost to his career, which could possibly end in dishonorable discharge, he would pay it.

  That may have been the first miscalculation of Masterson’s life. It would also be the last.

  Against his most fervent pleas for leniency to his forbidden family, Chancellor Zier, maddened with rage at this most egregious of betrayals to his family’s honor, ordered the child—a son—to be stripped of his identity and placed into the Alystierian government’s shoddy foster care system. Meanwhile Delarla, Tavarous, and the four guards who’d helped to protect their secret were redeployed as of immediately to the Prelyn, an aging frigate stationed on the outer edge of the Rayez territories.

  In his mind’s eye, Masterson could still see the headline atop the report—the one that had anonymously appeared three months later—through the bars of his cage in solitary, along with a fresh bathroom bucket, a slice of bread, and the day’s water rations.

  “Six crewmen dead after Prelyn cargo bay tragedy. Investigation deems faulty 02 recyclers as cause of accidental asphyxiation.”

  Masterson had never known pain prior to that moment. Not in the cold, rainy nights of his vagrant youth or the countless wounds he’d earned in battle. Not even in the faint, early memories of his father, whose hard leather belt had ripped at his flesh so many times before. None of it compared to this, and even so, he would’ve experience it all over again, a thousandfold, if it meant he could bring back his family. But that wasn’t possible.

  That was the day when Alec Masterson—the man, the husband, and the would-be father—died.

  Six months in solitary confinement later, what rose from that dark hole was something else entirely—a new kind of monster. Visibly leaner, and boasting a nearly albino-pale complexion that made him appear more wraith than man, he was cold, calculated, ruthless, and driven in the relentless pursuit of one, singular end… revenge. Before, he would’ve been content to wait in line and work his way up through the conventional ranks to get what he wanted, but what he wanted had changed. This was no longer about the chancellorship, though he would have that, too. No, it was about far more than that now. It was about the death of the man who had so mercilessly robbed him of his one chance at real happiness, the price for which could be nothing short of the complete and total annihilation of his entire bloodline. Wife, children, grandchildren—and most especially that bitch he would now be forced to return to for the sake of public pretenses—they would all pay.

  This would not be a quick process. It would take time—years, perhaps—but he had the patience for it. The hole had taught him that, and climbing into the transport that would take him back to what remained of his old life, Masterson made a silent, solemn vow: When that glorious day finally arrived, and the hour of his vengeance was at hand, he would bathe himself in their blood… and he would revel in it.

  As expected, the affair had been kept tightly under wraps by the Zier family, for fear of sullying their hallowed name in the public eye. As such, Masterson returned to his chair on the Myralord bridge with little question, having allegedly completed the six-month special assignment that he’d been so mysteriously absent for all this time. The officers under him, and the populace at large, hailed his exultant return, and while this gave him no personal comfort, it did serve to send a message
to Zier—a message that said, “Too many classified missions, and people will grow curious as to what their hero is up to.”

  From then on, Masterson went out of his way to make every encounter, no matter the scale, a brazenly triumphant spectacle of Alystierian supremacy and pride. Over time, his bloody exploits became the stuff of legend, and while this served to reinforce his growing image of invincibility, it also gave him immense personal satisfaction to know that such brutal methods were utterly abhorrent to Zier, a man whose obsolete code of conduct rendered him useless as a commander in Masterson’s mind. Win or lose, live or die, first blood or your blood, victory or death… that was Masterson’s code, and as the bodies piled higher, the people loved him for it.

  The years following his return from exile came and went, and as the Auran negotiations over control of the Kendaran mine began to unravel, making a conflict all but inevitable, Chancellor Zier was forced to appoint a new commandant of the Alystierian fleet following the untimely death of its previous leader at the hands of a heart attack. The coroner had found that odd considering the man—who was only 54—had never suffered from cardiac problems in his life, but with the long awaited civil war now looming, a successor would have to be named. The people’s choice was unanimous, and on March 21st of that year, Alec Masterson—pristinely dressed in his new black regalia—was officially sworn in as the 18th commandant of the Alystierian Empire.

  That was 26 months ago, the same day that Lt. Jensen Hourne—a promising young soldier with starlit blond hair, golden eyes, and a relentless sense of ambition that rivaled even Masterson’s own—arrived aboard the Kamuir, having finally been granted his request for transfer.

  ****

  Masterson slumped back in his chair—his hands clenched into fists, his grief-stricken mind still reeling from the tragedy at Myrick 4—and wept.

  He could still remember that fateful day when the young man had first introduced himself in the Kamuir’s orientation briefing. His record had been impeccable, filled with glowing reviews from his previous commanders, who raved of his exemplary conduct under fire—not that Masterson had needed any of this to know the boy’s identity. One look into those familiar golden eyes and it had all come rushing back to him in a gush of memory and fatherly pride.

  Having learned from past experiences, Masterson made sure that no one—not even his XO—learned of Hourne’s true origins. As far as anyone knew, he was an impressive officer who’d worked his way up the ladder like anyone else, and for the time being, it would need to remain that way. Masterson would not risk being denied the chance to know him a second time, and to reveal his identity now meant jeopardizing not only the boy’s life, but quite possibly his own as well. For that reason, Hourne had shaved his head free of his mother’s blonde hair, and allowed his facial hair to grow, further obscuring the features that might’ve been recognized by Zier or Kara.

  In the months that ensued, Masterson had watched proudly from the Kamuir’s bridge as the young man blossomed into a first-class commander under his tutelage, winning battle after battle and campaign after campaign, culminating with his highly publicized victory in the Phaxus engagement. It was there that Hourne had led a handful of ships against a small Auran armada, destroying every ship that stood against them—including the vaunted AS-Legacy—in a decisive victory that had earned him a promotion to captain.

  Oh, what a day that had been.

  Clasping a sweaty palm over his face, Masterson stifled another sob long enough to reach for his computer console and punch up a command… the one that accessed the Myrick 4 security logs, and the one he’d take to his grave.

  Maybe it would be different this time, he thought. Maybe somehow, some way, the events from time-index 78.2 to 91.6 would change, and that incredible young man—with all that promise, and all those glorious years ahead of him—would walk out alive. But it wasn’t to be.

  Then, with a final pang of soul-twisting regret, Masterson touched a quivering finger to the “play” key, and watched—fraught with an anguish that no parent should ever know—as the lone gunman in muddy green tigerstripes stormed the room, drew down with his sidearm, and in the blink of an eye… put a bullet through the skull of Masterson’s long-lost son.

  “Commandant, sir, the repairs are—”

  She never even heard the shot.

  ****

  As the blood crawled in thick, runny gobs down the wall of the commandant’s ready room, Masterson shoved the pistol back into its holster and returned to his seat—the lifeless corpse of the uninvited female officer twisted in a pretzel-like sprawl on the floor, surrounded in the blood-stained reports which the commandant himself had requested just an hour ago. Hunching over the body and riffling through the mess of documents, he located the one marked “Classified” in large, red font, wiped it on the dead girl’s pant leg, and flipped it open.

  “Not this time,” he bit out, glaring at the standard requisitions form inside, though not just any SRF. This was the one he’d submitted to Zier for extra forces at Dulaston—a request the chancellor, in all of his infinite wisdom, had seen fit to deny. “Not at my feet.”

  Then, activating his communications terminal and accessing a secure audio channel, Masterson waited.

  “Eurial Sun?” a man answered through the busy sounds of keyboards, ringing phones, and a lively newsroom.

  “Get me Maxwell Larson.”

  “Hold please while I transfer you.”

  A series of repetitive beeps later, another man picked up. “Larson.”

  “Mr. Larson,” Masterson said in an icy voice. “Do you know who this is?”

  A dark silence filled the line.

  “Yes, Commandant,” Larson gulped through a whisper. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “The time has come for you to repay that favor to me. Are you listening?”

  Once the conversation had concluded, Masterson sealed the requisitions file in an envelope, signed it with his usual alias—D. Reese—and slipped it into the outgoing mail basket. Then, retrieving a bottle of Alystierian whiskey from his desk drawer, he filled the dirty glass beside it and stared ominously back at the man in the frozen image.

  Tall and well-built, he was a younger man—early 30s, perhaps—with sun-coppered skin, light brown hair, and an odd marking on his upper right arm… a tattoo, featuring an old-style ship’s anchor, a shark, and a pair of strange words that Masterson had squinted dozens of times already to interpret, but couldn’t: “Semper Proficias”… whatever that meant.

  Slowly, the intricate wheels of Alec Masterson’s mind began to turn.

  At the moment, he didn’t know who this soldier with the tattoo was, but that was about to change. The time for patience was at an end. No longer would he stand idly by and watch as his feeble chancellor gave away this war with fool-hearted diplomacy. He knew that was over, and soon enough, the Alystierian people would know it too. When that time came, they would demand new leadership, and just as he’d done so fervently after Phalkirk, he would be there to answer the call.

  Still, those gears would take time to set in motion, which meant that for now, Masterson was free to focus his undivided attention on the mystery surrounding this tattooed gunman—a man who, once found, would beg for a death so merciful as the one he’d shown the commandant’s son.

  <<<<>>>>

  Acknowledgements

  To my brothers (Dave, Dre, Jeff, and Chris… the real Renegades): You are my friends, my family, my support, and my inspiration… It is an absolute honor to know each of you.

  To my beta readers (Ziggy, Rebekah, Jesse, and Lindsay): Your hard work and priceless insight helped to turn a blind man’s messy vision for a story into legible prose that everyone—sighted or not—will hopefully enjoy.

  To the God who built a universe far grander than the one in these pages: Thank you for bestowing upon me a passion for storytelling, and for your son’s ultimate act of grace toward even people as stubborn as I. (Joshua 1:9)

  To my
awesome readers: RUAH!!!... And GO NOLES!!!

  About the Author

  Throughout his career, Ian J. Malone has written for a variety of mediums ranging from short stories to sports features, though he is best known for his work in science fiction as author of the critically acclaimed Mako Saga. Having studied communications and sport administration at Florida State University, Malone credits his tenures in radio, law enforcement, sports marketing, and the military for much of his thematic inspiration, in addition to his friends and a lifelong love of the speculative fiction genre.

  A native of Florida, Malone resides in Raleigh, North Carolina with his wife, son, and the family’s Boston Terrier (the “legendary” Denny Crane).

  For more about the author, visit him online at www.ianjmalone.com or follow him on Facebook and Twitter (@ianjmalone).

  Go back to Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Mako

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: New Beginnings

  Chapter 2: Echoes

  Chapter 3: Game Changer

  Chapter 4: Mac

  Chapter 5: Virtual Reunions

  Chapter 6: Infiltration

  Chapter 7: Best-Laid Plans

  Chapter 8: Boost

  Chapter 9: Visitor