by C. Gockel
“A deal…sir?” This had to be a test.
“I can learn from you, Tyron. I’ve never commanded Volunteers.” He paused, making a nebulous conjuring gesture at her as if she were some mysterious entity instead of blood and bone. “And there are the…refinements of command I can teach you. You need to know how to deal with conscripts and Kindred if you’re to succeed. Call it a trade.”
Confused, Sela really looked at him for the first time. He was a recruitment vid for planetside conscripts: Brand new tunic, although misaligned, boots polished to a high shine. Tall, well-muscled. Perfect brown Eugenes hair and eyes. Veradin could have been purpose-bred like her. But under that, she saw anxiousness that bordered on fear. He had no clue what he was doing.
And she made him nervous.
This could be entertaining.
“Is this a test, sir?”
“No test.” He smiled, this one broader, more genuine. “Give me half a year as my second. Then you can go wherever you want if you wish. Reassignment, transfer. You name it. All with my commendation. You’ve my word. Agreed?”
Sela stared, stunned.
He started to fidget. “Your answer, Commander?” There was nothing in his voice to suggest he was mocking her.
“Yes, sir. Agreed.”
Veradin stuck out his right hand. She regarded it, stupidly. When she did not move, he stepped forward and grasped her right hand in his own. She had no idea what that gesture meant but had witnessed cresters greeting each other in a similar manner.
“Thank you, Ty. You don’t mind if I call you that? Do you?”
Why he would be thanking her, she had no idea. She fully intended to make his life as difficult as possible over the next half-year.
“No, Captain,” she replied. “That is your prerogative.”
“Ty” was a truncation of her patronymic, as perfunctory as that was. Breeder names are randomly selected and applied to newly born booters. The names were meant to honor fallen heroes. Sela had been named for Selanid Tyronis, liberator of who-knows-what of the year too-dead-to-matter. She had never cared about military history or famous ancient generals. They were dead, she reasoned. Couldn’t have been that good at their jobs, then.
No one had called her “Ty” since her time in the kennels. Somehow Veradin had tuned into that. It was indicative of what this man did to her. Something about him threw her off balance. This man, who was as new as his command tunic, made her feel like a novice. But at the same time, he possessed this nameless something that was wise beyond his experience or years.
She was only able to sense this after her initial anger toward him cooled, and her distrust quieted. There was something different about Jonvenlish Veradin. The rumors about him were abundant. Sela saw first-hand how he was treated as an outsider among the other cresters. The term “pauper lord” was thrown out at him a lot. Although Sela received the impression it was meant to be disparaging, she failed to grasp it. As a soldier of the Regime, Sela had never possessed or needed currency. It was a vague concept that often seemed arbitrary (and more than a little ridiculous) to her.
The stories she heard, though probably embellished, indicated that the Veradin Kindred was the subject of some dishonoring in the recent past. Though her new captain had not been implicit, he suffered this reduced status nonetheless. The nature of this dishonor varied wildly depending upon who told the story. Fleet techs said it was because the patriarch of his Kindred had refused to offer conscripts to the Regime. Infantry said it was because the Veradin Kindred were against aiding the Fleet armada.
Whatever the cause, Veradin’s behavior alone would have explained why he was considered an outsider. He did not act the same as other crester captains. He spoke to her, not at her.
He asked her the oddest, most pointless questions: How are you today? Have you eaten yet? What do you do on downtime? Bizarre. At first, Sela was wary of answering them, fearing some sort of ploy. Eventually, she realized it just made Veradin…well, Veradin.
For all of his perceived faults, she started to see his merits. He could read situations with a natural ease that often provoked jealousy in Sela. The man could talk his way into or out of just about any situation. He commanded with a firm, but fair hand. He was casual almost to a fault, and she found it necessary to correct him on protocol and Decca almost daily. That was one way Veradin had taught her patience.
But never did he stop acting as though she were his equal.
The allotted time of their “deal” passed and neither of them pointed this out. Sela did not mind, did not even notice, in all honesty. Four years later and she could not envision her life without him.
Resting against the hard cold tiles of the stall, Sela realized she had to get Jonvenlish Veradin off the Storm King and as far away from the Council of First as possible.
Lineao, did your Fates know about this? Do they know what’s in my heart before even I do?
Chapter Six
Sela had assumed it was a matter of her basic chemistry, but she was a creature of action. Stimulus. Response. Her response was to act. She felt it like a deep-seated itch in a healing wound. It was a surge of energy felt through every cell. In battle, where the threat was clear, this trait served her well. When the threat was nebulous with no apparent means of attack, acting rashly was a disadvantage. Veradin had seen that in Sela within moments. He had attempted to teach her to control that rashness and look beyond the immediate.
Until she had met Veradin, her personal vision of the future had always been vague. She imagined survival from engagement to engagement, nothing more. It was as if he could see a future for her beyond the now. She had committed the sin of believing him.
Yet in moments like this, it was so easy for her to fall back on old habits.
Count to ten. Breathe.
As she returned to the command hab level, Sela continued to count under her breath without realizing it. This time she stepped across the yellow line on the floor. Breeders were never allowed past this point. For a moment, she stood there in the subdued light of the corridor, facing what she assumed was the direction of Veradin’s quarters.
Expecting what? A siren? SSD troopers to descend on her? Nothing happened.
She took it in. There were no crawlers here. No motion sensors. It seemed Trinculo, and his ilk were less interested in monitoring the cresters. The walls were a muted brown unmarred by graffiti or scrapes from the crush of heavily armored bodies pushing past each other in a confined space. The ceiling felt higher. Recessed lights shone down in a soft amber color. It was nearly palatial in comparison to the squadbays.
No guards waited outside Veradin’s chamber. Of course not. He was not there; he was in stockade. The lock on his door was easy to disarm. It opened with a thick metallic clunk. Without waiting to see if the noise brought anyone to investigate, Sela stepped inside.
The room’s lights popped on, sensing her presence. Pulse roaring in her ears, she approached the simple single bed, impossibly neat. Impossible, if one knew Captain Veradin of the mussed hair and rumpled command tunic.
She found the space vaguely disappointing. There had been moments of weakness when she had imagined being here, in this room with him. What did he do in his hours away from her? Did he entertain visitors? Browse the holoweb? This might as well be a non-reg world.
There were things about Jonvenlish Veradin that were a complete mystery still. However, to Sela, there were a million other details she found commonplace and endearing. He ran his hand through his hair, over the right temple when he was agitated. His laugh was honest and perhaps too loud. He chewed the pad of his thumb when distracted. These were things a stranger would know after an hour.
What do I know of him, really? Why would First want him dead or call him a traitor?
Above the bed’s smooth surface, medals for valor lay in a single row on the small shelf. An image capture glowed from the wall. She tabbed through the images on the device. Smiling faces of strangers peered out from a world S
ela Tyron would never know. The last picture slid a jealous barb into her heart.
Veradin, in the gray lapels of a cadet’s jacket. He appeared years younger and a million worlds from that of the Regime, grinning happily under an alien sun. His arm was thrown around a refined-looking young woman with dark hair, striking green eyes and a pensive smile. She was wrapped in a swathe of purple, the color of the Veradin Kindred. Who was she? Cresters had mates, even those from a smaller Kindred like the Veradin. Does my captain have a wife?
Sela sagged to the bed, dimpling the once-perfect surface. Then, after a brief hesitation, she flopped onto her side to push her face into the cushion. She inhaled his scent. Rolling onto her back, Sela gazed up at the flat expanse of ceiling. Doubt coiled in her gut.
The ship’s chrono above the jamb ticked away precious time. Soon the level would be alive again with the changing shift. If she were to act, it had to be now.
Sela rose, plunking the gear bag open on the bunk. Blindly she shoved clothes, gear, and after a long, thoughtful pause, the image capture into the bag. Moments later she was another set of shoulders weaving through the mass of bodies in the middle of the duty shift.
“What are you doing…sir?”
Valen. He followed me. Sela stiffened.
She could not look at him.
“You’re on downtime, Valen. Go back to the squadbay.” She kept her eyes on the closed door of the level risers, willing them to open, waiting for escape. Why are they so damned slow?
“I’m not leaving, boss. Not until you tell me what you’re doing.”
It was the defiance in his voice that made her turn to face him. Towering, reliable and oddly baby-faced Valen. There was a bitter pull to the bow of his mouth. His eyes held a muted anger. Was it for her?
“They’re going to kill him,” Sela whispered.
Wordlessly, Valen took her elbow. No one noticed them in the crush of dutifully-bustling personnel. They were ignorant of, or uncaring about, this little drama as Valen tugged her into the nearest rec suite.
As soon as they crossed the threshold, Sela wrenched her arm from his grasp.
“Have you lost your mind, Sergeant?”
As she reached for the door control, he cycled it to lock. “Have you , boss?”
Sela exhaled a plosive sigh, allowing her shoulders to sag.
“Possibly. But I have to do something .” She slumped to the rec bunk, not caring about what acts might have graced its surface in the past. She planted her face in her hands and propped her elbows on her knees.
There was a rustle of fabric in the dim ugly light as Valen moved closer. Then, after an obvious hesitation, he sat beside her.
There was a long silence filled with the sound of the atmo scrubbers and some balefully sweet music the suite’s previous users had inexplicably found enticing. Valen slapped a thick palm over the interface in the wall beside him. The music snapped off, and the brightness of the room increased.
“I have to do something,” she repeated.
“I heard they arrested him for going up against Silva—”
“No. Not for that. For treason.”
“Treason? Why would they arrest the cap’n for treason?” Valen regarded her profile. But she continued to stare at the far wall.
“I don’t know. But I do know the charges against him are false.”
“Boss, how can you know…”
“I just do! Stop asking me questions.” She stood abruptly. Valen watched her pace the small room.
Finally, he asked. “It’s not just about Veradin, is it, Commander? Atilio meant something more to you.”
Sela stopped mid-stride and turned to him. “You see so much, don’t you?”
He shifted on the mattress. “All this and brains too.” He smiled wistfully.
“Atilio was my son.” It was strange to hear those words aloud. A secret given freedom in such an unlikely place.
His eyes widened. “Glory all.”
“I’ve never told anyone. Not even Atilio. Not Veradin. In fact, you’re the only person I’ve ever told.”
“But, you should have reported…”
Tyron grimaced, shaking her head as if to say: does that matter anymore? Here and now?
“They never meant for us to come back, did they?” Valen said after a pensive silence. “I got back to my rack, and it’d already been reassigned to some booter.”
Sela imagined the fearful expression on some newly minted soldier’s face to see Valen towering over him like a resurrected giant from a fable.
“They meant for us to die there, Valen.” Tyron sat back down beside him. “We were expendable.”
“But Decca—”
“First doesn’t play by those rules. They never have.” She would not shelter him from the truth. That was not her way.
It was his turn to pace.
He exhaled. “I’m with you, Commander.”
Sela offered a grim smile. Valen had always been there, it seemed. He was bedrock, firm footing. A constant in her life for how many years now?
“I’ve never doubted that, Sergeant. But this isn’t your fight.”
“You can’t do this. You can’t just tell me the lay of it and leave me out. What are you doing, Sela?”
She nodded. “I have to get the captain off the Storm King .”
“You have lost your mind,” Valen ran a hand over his face.
“I need to get him on a craft, something they won’t miss like a runner or—
“It’s treason.”
“I know. But I’ve never been surer of anything. The captain is innocent. Trinculo doesn’t care about that. He wouldn’t listen to me. He said he’d arrest me too if I didn’t let it go.”
Valen knelt before her. His enormous hands swallowed hers. “Okay, boss. Say you do that. You get Veradin off the ‘King . Then what? Trinculo finds out what you did. And then you’re the one that’s dead. Is that what you want? ‘Cause I don’t.”
“If it comes to that.” She gently pulled her hands from his. “Yes.”
“No crester would do that for a breeder.”
“He would. The captain would. He’s the only reason the Storm King stayed in orbit, the only reason they extracted us.”
“I know,” he said. “But treason?”
“It’s not treason. It’s a rescue. ”
Valen rose. He extended a hand to her, palm up, inviting. “I know a flight tech that will help us.”
“Us?” she asked. “No, Valen. I can’t let you do this. Like you said, once Trinculo figures this out, he won’t just stop with me.”
She trusted Valen with her life. But she could not allow him to follow her down this suicidal path.
Yet, when she would not take his hand, he pulled her to her feet as if she weighed nothing.
“Some things you just don’t have a say in.”
Chapter Seven
The Cassandra class vessel Valen had found in the impound bay was one of the ugliest things to be brought into service by Fleet, in Sela’s opinion. It was a relic by the time she was a booter. But it was perfect.
Fleet did not make ships like this anymore and with good reason. It was a cesium fuel hog: a design flaw. It was the smallest vessel in Fleet to be fitted with velo drives, making it able to use flex points like a carrier.
Two enormous cesium tanks ran the length of the ship. Like an afterthought, everything else was crammed into the spaces between hab, galley, cargo hold. The command loft was situated in the center, where it was well-shielded from assault above and below. Sela had trained on models with similar internal layouts, but with less bulky hulls covered by active charge plating.
This Cassandra had seen better years. If she were one to dwell on such things, it could have been a sadness to see a mighty ship cast off like this. It had been relegated to a life of questionable service. As in the case of all obsolete vessels, once a ship was stripped of useful tech the Regime sold it to friendlies. This one had found its way into the ownership of
a blockade runner. As a result, the Cassandra had non-reg engine mods and a list of problems as long as Sela’s arm.
Although imperfect, the Cassandra was their only option. Taking a Fleet runner or even a stryker was impossible. Even if there were a way to gain access past encryption on flight controls, these ships were constantly under surveillance or being actively serviced by flight techs. And if by some miracle, they had obtained one, flight was limited. Strykers and runners could not undergo conduit travel without a support vessel like a carrier.
With the Storm King still in the midst of velo spool-up, the personnel Sela and Valen passed in the corridors were mostly a mix of admins and Fleet techs. They were, in Sela’s estimation, the big brains that made the conduit travel work. They were suitably distracted for now. None of them seemed to even notice the two helmeted SSD troopers or question their presence.
At the entrance to the stockade, Sela paused.
“It’s not too late for you,” she said. The helmet’s vox made her voice sound tinny and strained.
She could not tell Valen’s expression beyond the darkened visor of his helm but sensed he was grinning at her. “And what? Let you have all the fun, sir?”
“Valen—”
“Where in Nyxa’s name have you been, troopers?”
Trinculo stood in the doorway with his arms folded and face ruddy with anger.
Her body snapped to attention. It was an ingrained reaction in the presence of any superior. Beside her, she sensed Valen do the same.
Her mind raced in competition with her heart hammering against her ribs.
He found out. He knows. Trinculo knows.
“Officer Trinculo,” Sela stammered, not entirely certain of her next words.
“You are twelve minutes late for duty, breeder!” Trinculo snapped, leaning into the faceplate of her helm. His spittle pelted her visor.
