Aurora Falling (Aurora Fleet Book 1)

by Finn Gray

  Accounts of soldiers in the Memnon War tell of enemies who were exceptionally strong, fast, and cunning. While these stories are largely anecdotal, at least one captured Memnon proved to be exactly as described. During his time in captivity...

  “I just finished that book.” Julian had returned, holding two glasses of sangria. “Short story,” he said, sliding Lina’s drink over to her and reclaiming his seat, “it’s oranges, strawberries, cherries, and a grape I stole off of someone’s plate as I passed by their table.”

  “You did not steal a grape,” she said, laughing.

  “See for yourself.” He pointed to the green orb floating in the red wine. “I don’t know who else has touched it, so if you want to trade, you can have my drink.”

  “That would be ungrateful of me. Besides, the alcohol will kill the germs.” She took a sip, savoring the fruity sweetness blended with the tang of the wine. Not bad. “But do you really expect me to believe you read this book? It’s kind of dry reading.”

  “No kidding. If I tossed in the urinal, it would float.” Julian grinned. “I read it for a course at university. Spoiler alert—the Memnons lose the war and we send them all out of the Aurora system in a fleet of pioneer ships.”

  “Do you really think so?” She took another sip of sangria.

  “Which bit? That we won the war or that we sent them away?”

  Lina shook her head. “The part about sending them all away. I mean, how would we know the difference? They’re like us, but with enhancements. At least, the ones who didn’t take it to the extreme are.”

  Julian took a drink, considered the question. “Enhancements were rare back then, but that wouldn’t really prove anything, would it?”

  “Exactly. The true test of a Memnon was belief. If you believed that our future lay in the union of human and machine, you were a Memnon.”

  “And if you believed everyone should be forced into that union by any means necessary,” Julian finished.

  “There is that.” She absently stirred her drink with her straw, gazing at the bright red cherries swimming in blood-red wine. “Reading this book got me thinking. We have no way of knowing if all the Memnons left the system. What if true believers remained among us, lying low, biding their time, quietly swelling their ranks, avoiding enhancements so as not to tip us off?”

  “These days they wouldn’t have to avoid them completely. Lots of people have a new eye or a replacement limb or organ.” Julian tilted his head and flashed that shy smile again. “I have an enhancement.”

  “Really? What is it?”

  “My lips.” He closed his eyes and leaned in for a kiss.

  Lina turned away, pretending she hadn’t noticed his overture. “What happened to Val?”

  “I don’t know. Look for Galen’s big head bobbing over the crowd and you’ll find her.” A note of sullenness crept into Julian’s voice.

  “She’s already ditched him. Look.” She pointed to the far side of the dance floor, where the tall, gangly redhead stood, arms folded, staring balefully at something to his right.

  Following his line of sight, she spotted Val, arms wrapped around the neck of a man clad in the uniform of the Auroran fleet. Although the song was upbeat, the two swayed slowly, eyes locked, bodies pressed tightly to one another.

  “Oh gods. She can’t help but embarrass herself.”

  “I know the feeling,” Julian said. “I make a fool of myself on a regular basis.”

  Sympathy welled inside Lina. He’d been perfectly nice to her so far. She reached out and laid her hand on his.

  “Please understand, wherever I go, I’m in the public eye. Val doesn’t care what people think of her, but my image matters to me. I’m in line for the throne. I’ll probably be in my dotage before I ascend, but I don’t want to be an embarrassment to my family in the interim.”

  “So, you don’t want to be seen kissing a strange guy in a club?” Julian’s beige skin took on a hint of red around the cheeks.

  “No, but I’m happy to be seen enjoying a lovely evening with a handsome man.”

  That lifted his spirits. Smiling, he raised his glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” she said. They clinked glasses and drank. Lina was ready to resume their discussion of the Memnon War, but Val chose that moment to return.

  “Looks like you two are getting along.” She slid into the chair next to Julian and helped herself to a sip of his sangria. Her lips twisted and she spat the wine back into the glass and returned it. “Too many cherries, no melon.”

  “Melon was in short supply,” Julian said, pushing his drink away.

  “This is Simon Vatcher.” Val said. “He’s a commander in the fleet.”

  Simon inclined his head in a respectful bow. “A pleasure to meet you, Highness.” He was tall and strikingly handsome, with wavy brown hair, solid cheekbones, and intense green eyes.

  “And you as well,” Lina said. “This is my friend, Julian.”

  The men’s eyes flitted toward one another, but neither spoke.

  “A commander at your age? That’s impressive,” Lina said. “You can’t be more than thirty cycles.”

  “Thirty-one, actually. I was only just elevated to command of Osprey, one of the old battlecruisers. Not the most impressive feat.” His smile was thin, and his posture remained rigid. Apparently, self-deprecation did not come naturally to the young officer.

  “Simon, get us drinks,” Val said. “Champagne.”

  Simon bobbed his head and winked. “As you command.”

  “He’s cute, isn’t he?” Val said, watching as Simon walked away. “And well-connected. He’s a member of the royal family of Artusa.”

  “An Artusan? Aren’t they your family’s rivals?” Julian asked.

  Val ignored him. “I think I’ll stay out late tonight, let him bring me home. Father will be furious.”

  Before Lina could come up with an effective argument against this plan, Carlos approached the table.

  “Forgive me, Highnesses, but your father insists that you come home at once.”

  Lina felt as if she’d been doused in ice water. It wasn’t like Father to issue such abrupt orders. Was something wrong?

  “Did he say why?”

  Carlos shook his head.

  “Let him wait,” Val said. “I’m having fun and it’s not like Father’s never been mad at us before.”

  “Respectfully, Your Highness,” Carlos said, “I think that would be a very bad idea.”

  Chapter 4

  City of New Soria

  Hyperion

  Dominic Graves tipped the glass of Durnan Whiskey to his lips. He savored the strong drink for a few seconds before swallowing. It burned satisfactorily, setting hit throat to tingling on the way down. He swirled the amber liquid around in the glass, listening to the clink of ice, feeling the condensation cool against his fingertips.

  Behind the bar, a mayall match played out on the vid screen. The players, wearing heavily padded suits, fought, sometimes literally, to get the ball into a hoop at their opponent’s end of the slope-sided court. It was an odd mix of sport and combat, with any attack below the neck, aside from groin strikes, permitted. He had interest in neither the teams nor the result, but he stared at it anyway, just to have something to do.

  “Mandatory shore leave,” he muttered. “Such a gift.”

  “You say something, friend?” The bartender didn’t look in Graves’ direction. The intensity with which he’d followed the match suggested he had money staked on the outcome.

  “I’ll take another.” Graves drained his glass and set it down on the polished wood surface.

  The bartender appraised him. “You look like you might be close to your limit, friend.”

  Graves bit off a retort. The man was only doing his job, and hells, he was probably right. No point in overdoing it on his last night ashore. He forced a grin. “Make it a glass of water, then.”

  A sharp laugh rang out from a nearby table.

  “Th
etans,” someone said, “can’t handle their liquor.”

  Graves ignored the man. He’d been listening to these sorts of weak insults his entire life, not only when he visited Hyperion, but from Hyperians visiting Thetis, as well as Hyperians in the fleet. Screw them all.

  “I hear they can’t get their peckers hard once they hit forty, either,” said another voice.

  “Your wife will tell you differently.” Graves spoke to the mirror behind the bar, but made sure his eyes met those of the speaker, and that his voice was loud enough to carry.

  A sudden quiet fell over all the patrons in Graves’ immediate vicinity. Several at the bar and at nearby tables had heard the exchange. Though they all feigned disinterest, most pretending to watch the match, Graves could tell they hung on every word.

  “What did you say, Thetan?”

  Graves gave the man a hard look. He was a good fifteen cycles younger than Graves, thirty at the most. He was a big fellow, too.

  “You didn’t hear me? I knew Hyperians sat around with their thumbs up their asses but I didn’t know they put them in their ears, too.”

  Now the man’s friends turned to stare at Graves. They were equally big, equally young, and based on their dull eyes, equally dimwitted.

  “You just going to take that from him, Sol?” one of the men at the table asked.

  Sol rose slowly from his chair, his jaw working. He didn’t appear afraid, just unable to generate an adequate rejoinder.

  “I don’t have my thumb up my butt,” he finally said.

  Graves raised his eyebrows. “I’m surprised you took it out. You look like someone who enjoys having something stuck up there.”

  Laughter rang out from the onlookers. Face scarlet, Sol advanced on Graves, the smell of liquor on his breath strong even at a meter away.

  “Outside!” The sharp note of command in the bartender’s voice halted the man in his tracks. He aimed a black, pistol-shaped object at Sol. “Unless you want a stun dart in your balls, you settle your business on the street, and not in my establishment.”

  Sol locked eyes with Graves. His fists clenched and then relaxed. He nodded. “Fine. I’ll wait for you outside.” He turned and stalked out. Grinning eagerly, his friends stood, drained their drinks, and turned to leave.

  “Your tab?” the bartender prompted them. “Thirty-seven gilds. Plus tip.”

  One of them hung back long enough to drop some gilds on the table, leering at Graves all the while. “Don’t waste your time sitting around here hoping we’ll leave,” he said. “Sol will be waiting for you.”

  The bartender laid his stunner on the bar. “You can go out the back,” he said quietly. “You can be long gone by the time those idiots figure out what happened.”

  Graves let out a long, slow breath. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I insist. It’s got to be at least ten.”

  “Twelve, actually.”

  Dom laid twenty on the bar. “Keep the change.” He turned and headed for the door.

  “Buddy, the back door is the other way.”

  Graves glanced back, flashed a grin. “Not going out the back. I’ve been on leave for a week and this is the first interesting thing that’s happened to me.” He took his time, taking a few deep breaths and trying to clear his head. He’d have preferred to do this sober, but it was too late.

  Outside, the night air was a welcome relief to his senses, and he breathed in deeply. He couldn’t deny he’d miss the fresh air when he was back on board Dragonfly. But, that was probably the only thing he would miss.

  “You ready?” Sol stood at the edge of the sidewalk, back to the street.

  Graves looked him up and down. The man was tall and muscular, but he was mostly biceps. Muscles shaped to look good in a tight shirt, not made for fighting.

  “Look, we don’t have to do this,” Grave said. “Just apologize to me and we’ll forget the whole thing.” He held out his hand to shake.

  “Apologize?” Sol tried to smack Graves’ hand away. His swat was powerful, but slow and stiff.

  Graves had known it was coming. He drew his hand back and, when Sol overbalanced, he drove a crisp jab into the bigger man’s jaw. He felt a stab of pain down to his elbow. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to hit a solid object with his bare fist. Sol staggered back, tripped over the curb, and fell on his ass. Before he could regain his feet, Graves drove his knee into the bridge of the fallen man’s nose. Sol uttered a low cry, fell back, and rolled over onto his side, his hands covering his face, knees pulled up to his gut in a fetal position.

  Graves drew back his foot to deliver a kick to the kidney. He caught movement at the corner of his eye and ducked as one of Sol’s friends, took a swing at him. Not fast enough. The man’s fist clipped the crown of Grave’s head, hit him hard, and he saw stars. The man’s second punch missed badly, and Graves pumped an uppercut to his chin and a hook to the temple, buckling the man’s knees.

  The victory was short-lived. The third member of the group, whom Graves had thought was staying out of it, tackled him from behind. They hit the ground hard, Graves scrambling to break free of his grip. He worked his way loose, rolled to his feet, and aimed a kick at the man’s head. But his whiskey-soaked reflexes finally betrayed him, and the tip of his toe deflected off the man’s shoulder.

  He felt it snap. Pain burned through his foot and up his leg. He took a step back, trying to regain his balance, and nearly fell. Damn! Why did the big toe have to be so important for balance? He stumbled backward, fists raised, and watched as all three men worked their way to their feet and stalked toward him.

  “Dom Graves,” he muttered, “you’ve got to carry the can for this one.”

  Chapter 5

  Camp Maddux

  Hyperion

  Rory moved into the private cubicle and pressed his thumb to the vidscreen, bringing it to life. A digital display, letters and numbers, filled his vision. He raised his hand and, with numb fingers, tapped in the code for his parents’ house. He stood there, unsteady on his feet, as he waited for the connection to complete. Through slitted eyelids he watched the marine insignia rotate onscreen as we waited.

  Finally, the image flickered and his mother’s face filled his vision.

  “Rory, is that you? Thank the gods!” Magda Waring was a plump woman with a kind face and silver-streaked blonde hair, the very picture of a farm wife.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  She leaned toward the screen, eyes narrowed. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, just...” He searched for the word, but there was no term for what he felt. He and his fellow recruits had been awake for three days. They’d spent hours listening to instructions from their drill instructors, entering information into computers, practicing mundane tasks like making their beds over and over, and they’d done more than their share of marching and running. He was beyond exhaustion, beyond caring what happened to him. Now he focused on two things: completing his assigned task and remaining on his feet. “I’m just tired,” he finished.

  “Looks like they’re working you too hard,” his mother said.

  “I don’t think there’s a such thing in the corps.” He hesitated. “Is Dad around?”

  “He’s outside, working.”

  Rory didn’t miss the tightness at the corners of his mother’s mouth. She hated to lie.

  “At this time of night?”

  Magda sighed. “Your father loves you. He just needs more time.”

  Rory nodded. “Listen, Mom, I’m limited to one minute. I just needed to let you know that I’ve completed my first three-day cycle, and you can expect to hear from me within two weeks. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Rory ended the call, turned, and left the cubicle. He strode past the line of recruits waiting their turns, his legs moving mechanically. One foot in front of the other. Eyes directed forward. No one met his gaze. The only people to make a sound were those who w
ere calling home, their voices muffled by the cubicle doors. The hot, stuffy room only added to his drowsiness.

  The outside air offered no relief. The humidity made the camp feel like a steam room. Damp air seemed to soak into his gray jumpsuit, the fabric clinging to his sticky flesh. Under Sergeant Trent’s watchful eye, he formed up along with those who had already made their calls. They stood, hands folded behind their backs, and waited.

  The high-pitched whine of a mosquito buzzed at his ear. He didn’t even care. He’d lost track of how many times he’d been bitten since he’d arrived. Where his skin didn’t itch from insect bites, it burned from exposure to the sun, too much sweat, and the chafing of the ill-fitting jumpsuit.

  A wave of drowsiness rolled over him and he bit his cheek to try and keep awake. The sharp pain and the salty taste of blood in his mouth did little to help. He tried to come up with a mental exercise to keep himself awake. He started by mentally reciting the names of the gods. In his head, he listed them in the same order he’d been taught to recite them in Temple as a child: Terros, Caelis, Ignus, and Aquas. Then he listed them in reverse.

  All right, that kept me awake for an entire minute, maybe less. Now what?

  He listed the eight nations of the Auroran Pact: Koruza, Vatome, Artusia, Memarca, New Soria, Echota, Norwind, and the Peacock Islands. The oceans, rivers, and major landforms. And then there was Thetis. How many countries on Thetis? No, that wasn’t right. Thetis was colonized as a joint effort between seven nations. They were a mix of races and nationalities, with no independent nations. Just like the marines were supposed to be. You left your old identity behind and became...not a soldier. Never make that mistake within the hearing of a drill instructor, or any other marine for that matter. Marines were marines, a breed apart. Marines were the finest fire-pissers in the worlds.