The Hope Island Chronicles Boxed Set

by PJ Strebor

  Foss swallowed another nip of brandy and reflected yet again that life was rarely fair. A lifetime of service obliterated because of one mistake. In the days of the old Republic, showing mercy to a helpless enemy was the expected norm. Then came the war, the president's insane release of the Derwent Plague and the implosion of the Republic. From the ashes of the old republic the Empire rose and everything changed. Too late Foss learned the error of continuing to employ his antiquated moral values. The HRS fell upon him like an avalanche wearing long black boots. In the case of the Human Resource Service, Foss could not imagine a more benign euphemism for such a malignant, all-powerful entity.

  The HRS gave him a taste of his changed circumstances. Six months as an ordinary seaman attached to the reclamation teams crushed the last of his stubborn resolve. At the mercy of petty officers handpicked for their hatred of former officers, he endured countless brutal humiliations. These too he survived. Finally satisfied that they had purged the last traces of pride and resistance, they offered him command of Picaroon.

  He chuckled mirthlessly at the term ‘offer’. As if I actually had a choice? So he drank, sometimes to excess. If he completed this preposterous mission to his superiors’ satisfaction they might forgive his one mistake. Perhaps restoration to duty in the regular navy? Foss clung to that hope as a drowning man clings to a small lump of wood. Only hope kept him from eating his pistol.

  Mad men must have planned this mission. It would probably get him killed. Draining the glass of brandy he reached for the bottle. The call chime sounded. Foss hid the bottle and glass under the table and straightened his waistcoat.

  “Ad-mit.”

  The hatch slid aside and Lt Saxon stepped over the coaming. He looked far too young to hold the rank of lieutenant jg. Foss knew who he was and suspected what he was.

  The lieutenant snapped to attention. "Good morning, captain."

  “Lieutenant.” Foss gestured to the nearest chair. “What can I do for Pruessen Naval Intelligence today?”

  “Same thing as last time I'm afraid.” His rueful smile failed to hide the lethal nature of his eyes. Eyes that did not belong on such a boyish face.

  Foss spread his hands wide. “If you’re having trouble training the crew in your new techniques you’re on your own. You know what these headhunters are like.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Saxon’s nose twitched, undoubtedly detecting the brandy on Foss’ breath.

  “I will have another word with my executive officer and see if we can reach an accommodation of some sort. Perhaps I can buy his cooperation with a case of brandy.”

  “Any assistance will be appreciated, captain.” Saxon snapped to attention and left.

  Under his breath too low for the pickup to capture, Foss said, “And there goes the future of the empire.”

  ***

  “Another mission, another pseudonym,” Orson mumbled as he left Foss’ cabin.

  The Family’s orders were abundantly clear but his concerns over the likely outcome of this mission caused his head to throb.

  From the thousands of vessels available to the Pruessens they chose this ship. Not a warship, not even one of their svelte e-boats but a great hulking mass. Picaroon was little more than an armed freighter formerly used by pirates.

  Orson wanted the hand-picked finest from the Pruessen navy. He got headhunter dregs. He required a year of intense training. They gave him four months.

  What the hell is the Family thinking? In a rush of shame he bit his lower lip. Orson loved the Family. Without the Family he would be nothing more than a Pruessen slave.

  Although doubts remained he understood the reasoning behind the strict mission parameters. However, pitting Picaroon and her miserable headhunter crew against the best of the League Navies carried extreme risks. All League worlds treated headhunters as nothing more than pirates. The penalty for piracy was death.

  The Family could not allow technology of this advanced type to fall into enemy hands. Orson’s junior status and expendability made him ideal fodder for this potentially suicidal mission. Regardless of the high-risk nature Orson knew he would return from this assignment. He vowed that nothing would stand between him and his true destiny. He would prove his worth to the Family.

  Orson reached the gray metal door and read the bronze plaque: Commander Bannister, Department of Planning and Infrastructure. Orson tapped the call button and stepped into the room when the hatch opened. The small, sparsely furnished room contained nothing to distract from its utilitarian function. Behind the single desk sat a man about thirty years old. Tall and broad-shouldered he showed the benefits of years of tough physical training. Bannister glanced from his screen, severe disinterest clouding his features.

  “I'm busy Saxon. Make it quick.”

  “Sir, we have a problem and we need to discuss it.”

  “Very well.” For the first time in weeks Bannister’s expression changed to one of acute interest. “What's the problem?”

  “You are.”

  Bannister's curious expression turned lethal.

  “For the last three months I have done everything you’ve asked of me, accomplished every task assigned to me. Despite this you treat me like a piece of shit stuck to your boot. I accept I am the junior member of this team. But it is essential that we work in concert to accomplish the mission. This will not do … sir. This is a vitally important mission and – ”

  “I don't need to be lectured about the mission, certainly not by you.” Bannister leapt from his chair his hands supporting his weight on the table. “I will not have you bursting into my office making demands. Let's get something straight, Saxon, I did not request you. Nor do I want you here. However, when those we serve give me an order, I obey. But that doesn't mean I have to like it.”

  Bannister waved impatiently at the only other chair in the room.

  “We’re stuck with each other so we'll have to make the arrangement work, somehow. But understand me, lieutenant, I don't trust you.”

  “I’ve never failed to complete a mission.”

  “You’re missing the point. You, are, reckless. You think your way is the only way and damn everything else. Your intractable, bigheaded attitude is fucking unacceptable.” His voice had not risen but his tone remained frosty. “You have great potential, Saxon, but a flaw in your psyche will seriously impede your chances for further promotion. Do you know what your flaw is?”

  Orson failed to suppress a sigh. “No sir.”

  “I think you do,” Bannister snapped. “I sense the rage in you but I cannot fathom its origin. Directed rage can be a useful asset. An out-of-control sadist like you introduces a dangerous element to any mission you are part of. Since early youth we have trained you in the arts of our profession. Despite this, your obsession for mayhem overcomes your better judgment.”

  “So I enjoy my work.” Orson smirked. “So what?”

  “So, if you continue to favor that type of negative, short-sighted attitude it will impact on your effectiveness. Remember your training and control your passions. Failure to do so will eventually lead to your downfall. Do you read me, son?”

  “I don’t understand why you’d say this. My record – ”

  “I know about your record. On the surface it’s impressive. But it's what is not on the page that’s the problem.”

  “I don't know what you mean.”

  “Of course you do,” Bannister snapped again.

  Orson groaned internally when the Advocate held out his hand. He followed the unspoken order of his superior. When their hands touched he sensed the other man's mind merging with his, the tendrils of thoughts intertwining. An Associate was incapable of resisting the power of a white level Advocate. Or so the story went.

  Bannister's mind reached into his, probing aggressively. But he could not breach the walls of the dark place Orson kept hidden from all. After a few seconds of intense probing Bannister broke contact. His mouth tight
ened as he nodded.

  “Yes, there it is,” Bannister said. “Your escalating ambition, your resentment of authority, your belief that you are better than your place within this organization. And of course, your rage.”

  Orson had devoted his life to the Family but all Bannister could do was complain about his spotless record. He felt his anger mounting.

  “Yes, you accomplish your missions. Do you expect a pat on the back for doing your job?”

  “No,” Orson said through set teeth.

  “You say no, but I sense more.” Bannister's eyes bore into him. “You think this mission is a joke, don't you?”

  “No, not a joke. But an ill-conceived plan relying on deficient resources.”

  “I had similar reservations and I expressed my concerns to those we serve.”

  Orson took a sharp breath.

  “They told me what I’ll tell you. This mission will proceed on schedule and with the resources provided.” Bannister’s mouth curled into a pout. “If the mission succeeds under these circumstances we will have done our duty. If it fails …” he shrugged.

  “So, that's it,” Orson said.

  Bannister stared at him for a long moment before nodding.

  “Since you're here you may as well bring me up to date,” Bannister said. “How goes the training?”

  “What the headhunters lack in brains they make up for in aggression.”

  “And the retrofitting?”

  “At least that’s on schedule. But the crew, ha crew, are another problem.”

  “Perhaps if you chop a few of our noble crew into little pieces the others will become properly motivated?”

  “You have no idea how much that idea appeals to me. But with the clan mentality of these people if you kill one of them the whole pack will mark you for death.”

  “You afraid of dying, lieutenant?”

  “You should know better, sir.” He shook his head. “I suppose if I can't kill a few of them I will have to try a different approach.”

  “I don't care what you have to do. Slap them into shape.”

  “I have never failed in my duty to the Family and I won't start now.” His anger began to rise and he fought it down. Perhaps Bannister had a point. In his current infuriated state he referred to the Family aloud.

  “Indeed, to date your work has been satisfactory. Your efforts have not gone unnoticed by those we serve. Control, Saxon, is the word for the day. Maintain your control and you could have a bright future.” Bannister smiled grimly. “If we return from this mission, of course.”

  Orson resigned himself to waste no more time trying to change the Family’s decision. On the plus side, if he survived this mission he would be in line for promotion to white level Advocate. Gone would be the days of smuggling Kesium into League space. With Advocate status he would contribute significantly to the fall of the League of Allied Worlds. Once they had scaled that high pinnacle … the Family had plans.

  “Very well, commander, thank you for your time.” He stood and straightened his waistcoat. “I’ll get back to thumping some sense into these numbskulls.”

  Bannister nodded curtly before returning to his screen.

  ***

  When Orson reached the training area he was not surprised to find the headhunter trainees playing with the swords as if they were toys. Their lax attitude threatened to endanger the mission. These dregs understood only one language. He sought out the toughest of Picaroon’s crewmen.

  Spicer lounged against a cargo container and spared Orson a token glance as he approached. Like the rest of the crew he wore the obligatory beard and carried an unhealthy stink. Spicer ran the ship, his size and natural brutality placing him at the top of the food chain. This made him the ideal candidate for Orson's much-needed demonstration.

  “Petty Officer Spicer, finished for the day?”

  “Looks like it, doesn't it.” Having been top dog for so long Spicer saw no threat from someone half his build.

  “So, there is nothing else you can learn about this weapon?”

  “What's to learn?” Spicer finally spared him a glance. “Chop into the other man till he stops moving.”

  “Really?” Orson said. “Why don't you demonstrate how to do that?”

  “I'm busy.”

  “What's the matter?” Orson adopted an arrogant pose to match his tone. “Scared?”

  The headhunter laughed roughly. Most of the sycophantic crewmen joined in.

  “I'm scared of nothing.” The great oaf pushed himself to his feet and seized the broadsword. “Who do you want me to kill?”

  “Me.” Orson hands rested on his hips, smugness playing across his face. Spicer’s obvious irritation was just what Orson hoped for.

  The headhunter snorted and shook his head. “You don't even have a sword. And besides, when I kill you I might be brought up on charges.”

  Orson showed his back to the killer and addressed the fascinated crew. “Now hear this,” he shouted. “This training demonstration between Petty Officer Spicer and myself is an open bout. No rules, no rank.” The crew smiled at the prospect of a fight between one of their own and an officer.

  Anticipating Spicer’s next move Orson stepped aside as the blade passed by his left shoulder. When the sword struck the deck Spicer used its momentum to slide it across the metal deck and swing it around to take Orson's head.

  Orson ducked under the killing blow. Catching Spicer off balance Orson’s heel struck the crewman’s exposed right knee. The light kick would hurt but not disable the headhunter. Orson had a point to prove and ending the bout too early would soften its impact.

  Spicer grimaced and limped away from his opponent. The oaf approached Orson with greater care this time, one foot sliding after the other, as his training demanded.

  Spicer made tentative thrusts at Orson’s body while circling him. I don’t have the patience for this game. He allowed Spicer to step into position behind him.

  Orson heard the headhunter’s hurried attack as if it were a stampede. This time he slipped inside the reach of the raised sword before it descended. Orson drove the heel of his right hand into Spicer's nose. The sound of splintering cartilage echoed around the hold. Spicer staggered back but to his credit kept his sword raised.

  As Orson stepped forward to finish the bout, Spicer swung at his head. Orson caught his arm above the right wrist, twisting it back and around once.

  Spicer groaned and the sword dropped from his hand. Orson could have snapped his wrist without effort but settled for a severe sprain. At the end of the day this scum had his uses.

  Orson left Spicer to nurse his wounds and addressed the flabbergasted crewmen. “Does anyone else think they know everything about this weapon and its proper use?”

  Orson scanned the crew, pleased to see only downcast eyes. Good, I’ve made my point without inciting retribution from the clans.

  CHAPTER 23

  Date: 1st June, 320 (ASC).

  Position: Sentinel Artemis, Planet Carina, Northern Quadrant. Athenian Republic.

  Status: Monitor Truculent undergoing pre-embarkation preparations.

  Commodore Donatella Waugh examined the holo display projecting from the briefing room table. Red and orange status icons peppered Truculent’s image but were significantly fewer than they were yesterday. Waugh had no doubt all icons would be uniformly green well before their morning departure in five days.

  Pleased with the condition of her boat she reclined in her high-backed chair. After so many years, the black leather had contoured to enclose her body. A warm sense of familiarity flowed through her. Waugh chose to ignore the forthcoming unpleasantness.

  A smile touched her lips when she faced the stern bulkhead. Dozens of full-color hard copies festooned the wall. John and her four daughters, two granddaughters, associated family and friends smiled back. Official functions with old comrades and new allies. In pride of place in the center of the wall, a large print of
her entire crew, taken six months ago on the day of her surprise fiftieth birthday bash. Of course she knew about the surprise. Waugh knew everything happening aboard her boat. For the crew’s sake she feigned a wonderful display of surprise when a cheer went up as she walked into the boat bay.

  That day marked the beginning of a less than subtle change from her D-O, Luis Demianski. With the greatest respect he began referring to her as the Old Lady. Luis never missed an opportunity to remind her she was no longer the young firebrand he had known since they were youngsters. Thoughts of the academy brought her back to her immediate problem. Before the thought festered, the hatch chimed.

  "Ad-mit," she said, to the omnipresent Shipboard Management Computer. Waugh steeled herself as the hatch slid noiselessly aside.

  A tall, narrow man in his mid twenties bobbed his head awkwardly under the coaming as he entered. He must be at least three centimeters above the maximum height requirement for an attack boat. Anyone possessing a modicum of experience in monitor operations would know to step through the hatch sideways.

  His head dipped to clear the low overhead. He snapped to bent-necked attention at the head of the briefing table. Unlike everyone else on her boat, this buffoon wore a class A uniform to better separate himself from lesser beings.

  “Lieutenant Stephenson Tivendale, reporting to the Commanding Officer 27th Flotilla, Monitor Corps Third Fleet.”

  Waugh extended her hand. “Welcome aboard Truculent, lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, commodore.”

  Waugh indicated the nearest chair.

  His well-rounded Athenian accent assaulted her ears as a tutored afterthought rather than a consequence of proper breeding. Another social climber.

  Waugh fought the urge to reach across the table and slap the conceited expression from Tivendale's face. How dare he come aboard my boat pretending to be a qualified officer? Oh, she knew Tivendale all right. Not personally of course, for they had never met, but she knew his type. She shuddered to think of how many of his ill-deserved ilk wore the uniform of the Athenian Naval Service. Just how much more damage would these amateurs inflict on the Service before people woke up and dealt with them?