A Call To Battle: The Humal Sequence, #3

By Robert E. Taylor

James Hamilton was dead. Killed in a failed mission to secure scientific help to find a way to defeat the alien invaders.

For those who have escaped, survival is a priority. Pursued by both the aliens and the Imperials, they struggle to continue the fight and to follow the slim leads they had uncovered.

But time is growing short. Walsh, the leader of the alien invaders, grows tired of the game of cat-and-mouse he is playing and his followers grow increasingly restless at his lack of results. If he is unable to deal with the threat that the renegade group of humans represent, he will be forced to give his people what many of them desire above all else. The one thing that Hamilton's group fears the most.

The utter destruction of human civilization.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert E. Taylor
• Release date: Dec 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301515585

Robert E. Taylor

Robert Taylor lives with his long-term partner just outside London, England. He has travelled widely, visiting most of Europe, much of North Africa and parts of the Middle-East. His jobs have included many diverse careers such as Bank Courier, Cinema Projectionist and even Scuba Diving Instructor. In his off time, he enjoys travel, reading, computer gaming and watching movies.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

She had been having a pleasant dream. In it, there was a forested shoreline and she was walking hand in hand with a handsome man with no one else in sight. She was dressed in something thin and see-through; he had a shirt open to the waist. She never did manage to see his face to discover who it was, but she knew it wasn’t her husband and that didn’t bother her in the slightest. It was an almost perfect fantasy that she’d had a number of times over the past few months. Sometimes the walk ended in lovemaking on the sand. Sometimes they swam and sometimes they just walked but it was always a very pleasant, very relaxing experience.

So when something intruded into the dream that had not been there before, it was very irritating indeed. Once or twice, her husband had taken it upon himself to wake her up during the dream – a move he quickly learned not to do. Apparently she made noises when making love to her dream man. Her husband had taken it upon himself to ‘help’ her out in one of those moments. The disappointment on her face when she woke to find him on top of her and not the mystery night-time companion of her dreams must have been evident in her expression. He never bothered her after that, no matter what she did in her sleep.

But this time, the intrusion was not her husband’s fumbling attempts at pleasuring her. It was a noise.

Her dream processed it as a crow calling from the high branches of a tree. A rhythmic, harsh sound that repeated at short intervals, as if the crow were some kind of automaton. For a time she tried to ignore it, to hold onto the dream, the fantasy. But it was not happening. The dream began to evaporate and the crow’s call transformed into the insistent and grating sound of the comms unit on her nightstand.

Sighing, she pushed herself upright in the bed and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Her husband snored quietly next to her. Nothing ever woke him up at night. If there was ever an inferno that the house’s fire suppression system was unable to cope with he’d sleep through his own incineration, of that she certain.

She glanced at the comms unit by her bed. There was a light on it that flashed in time with the urgent noise it was emitting. The light was red, indicating that it was security calling.

Good grief! Didn’t I tell them not to bother me at night anymore?

Lately there had been a spate of intrusions onto the estate. Reporters and journalists mostly but also a few people whose motives were less benign. Her father had increased the security without as much as a flicker of fear. Now they had the equivalent of a private army to guard them. Regular patrols of the grounds day and night, sensors everywhere and a few of those monstrous ‘geneered guard dogs with jaws powerful enough to bite a man’s arm right off.

Things were a far cry from the peaceful days of a couple of months before. Then everything had been fine. The family got on with its work as usual and she, along with her father, kept the family business running. Things were going well for them.

Until the ImpSec agents came calling one morning.

There had been a dozen or more of them, insistent, refusing to take no for an answer, waving their warrant cards as if it gave them carte blanche to do whatever they liked. They had gone through the estate from top to bottom copying records, computer files, and data stores. They’d scanned every inch of the main house and then moved on to the rest of the grounds and outbuildings. Each of the family had been ‘interviewed’ in a private room; all of the staff, too.

Father had complained. He had contacts in high places. But those contacts shied away and refused to help, effectively washing their hands of him. Father had not been pleased about that.

At first, they didn’t even know what it was all about. The ImpSec’s Chief Investigator merely smiled and suggested that they watch the news more often.

When they had finally found out what was going on…

She had never seen her father so incandescent with rage. He had wandered about the house, shouting at anyone and everyone, servant, family and ImpSec agent alike. All felt the lash of his tongue. Her father was not someone who suffered fools gladly. But she had never seen him that upset.

After he had calmed down, he had cooperated fully – almost happily – with the authorities. But she knew that, deep inside, he still seethed with anger at what they were being put through.

The comms unit was still bleating plaintively on her nightstand.

With a sigh, she reached out and touched the respond button.

What is it? She said tiredly.

Forgive the intrusion, ma’am. There is an urgent transmission that requires your attention.

The voice on the other end was that of Garron Muniz, an old family retainer who had worked for them his whole life. He was their head of security, though she suspected he had about as much knowledge of security matters as she did. But he was faithful and reliable, two traits her father deemed most important in any employee. His long years of service had been rewarded by the security chief position, even though he had little real experience of such a role. It was one of the many things she and her father did not see eye-to-eye about – the promotion of employees to positions they were not suited to. Her father championed it, citing it as giving people the potential to become better than they had been. She took the converse view, pointing out the inherent problems in promoting people beyond their abilities.

However, Muniz was loyal to the family; she had to give him that. When the trouble had arisen, some of the employees had deserted the family.

Like rats deserting a sinking ship. Her father had dismissed them sneeringly. She didn’t like to point out that his metaphor implied the family was drowning, but she understood his anger.

Muniz was likeable enough as a person, too, though a little common at times. But at least he did strive to rise above his station. That was an admirable goal for anyone, as far as she was concerned.

Garron, I thought I told you not to bother me at night with calls? She sighed.

Yes ma’am. You did. I wouldn’t dream of waking you under normal circumstances. But this call is a little different. Muniz explained.

She sighed again, the sigh turning into a yawn. It had better be! What’s it all about?

There was a long hesitation on the other end of the line. It’s about your brother.

Good Lord Garron! Not another journalist trying to get an exclusive? Her anger was rising. Had he woken her for nothing more than this? At that moment she didn’t know whether to be angrier at Garron, or her father for promoting him in the first place.

No ma’am! Let me explain! Muniz hastily added. It’s about your brother, from someone claiming to be an associate of his. Apparently, there has been some sort of development. The caller – a woman, I think – said to say to you ‘Ermintrude might fly’, whatever that means.

The phrase was like a dash of cold water in her face, dispelling the last of the sleepiness from her mind instantly. She threw back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed.

You said it was a woman calling?

I think so, ma’am. Garron replied. Her voice is very rough, and she wouldn’t make a vid-link, just audio. She sounded upset, though.

She sat on the bed a moment longer, thinking. The phrase told her the call was genuine, but the female caller confused her. Who else would know that phrase but her brother?

He must have told it to someone. She thought. Someone he trusted.

In which case, the call might well be bad news. However, she wasn’t going to get any answers sitting on her bed thinking about it.

Alright Garron, I’ll take it in my office. Can you ensure it is on an encrypted channel? She told the comms unit.

I have already taken the liberty of doing that, ma’am. It is all set up for you. Muniz replied.

Thank you.

She threw on a dressing gown and hurried from the bedroom, along the lavish hallway, across the wide landing with its double staircase leading down to the ground floor and then into the business area of the house.

Her office door was as ornate as the rest of the place, polished oak, grown on Earth, her father insisted, and sporting a polished brass plaque with her name on it.

Patricia.

Like everything in the house, it was designed to look old-fashioned but hid a plethora of technology. There was no door handle, sensors detected her approach and unlocked the door for her. She pushed it open and went in.

Inside, the old-world feel was lessened. It was a working office, after all. Her desk was gleaming mahogany, also imported from Earth, so her father told her. There were circuits inlaid within the wood that activated as she sat down, lowering a screen from the ceiling to act as a monitor and projecting a keyboard and control interface onto the polished surface. She used an actual, physical keyboard when she had a lot of typing to do, but that was rare these days. Most of the time the virtual keyboard did perfectly well.

I’m at my desk. She told Garron Muniz, touching the virtual controls to open the comms link.

Very good ma’am. I’m transferring the call… now.

The monitor came alive in front of her, first with a static burst, then a test signal. Then it flicked over to the image of an individual that had clearly seen better days.

Garron had not seen the caller. He had said it had been audio only and hadn’t been sure it was even a woman. Looking at the caller on the screen, she wondered if Garron would have been any the wiser had a vid-link been established in the initial contact.

It was difficult to tell how old she was, but there was a set about her posture that spoke of defeat and resignation. Half of her face was given over to a brutally primitive cybernetic implant, metal replacing some of her cheek and skull with no effort at all to blend the organic and inorganic parts. Skin ended and metal began, it was that simple. The eye on that side was also a primitive optic, glaring an angry red color.

But it was her posture, and the fact that she had clearly been crying from her real eye a considerable amount that caused Patricia’s heart to sink. She had the feeling she already knew what the woman was going to tell her.

The woman with the cybernetic face drew a breath. Patricia Hamilton?

Patricia nodded. Yes, though it’s Hamilton-Smythe now.

The other woman nodded. Brother of James Hamilton?

Patricia nodded again. Yes.

My name is Ka… Klane. I knew your brother well. We worked together for a long time.

The woman’s voice was husky and deep but also had a defeated quality to it that Patricia definitely did not like. The woman looked fierce, but she was clearly hurting.

What has happened?

Klane sighed. I…I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, and I’m not real good at these things, but I have to inform you that your brother is dead.

She had been expecting it ever since Garron had told her the caller was not her brother.

How…How did he die? Patricia’s voice was suddenly hoarse.

He was in a gravitic flyer that crashed. He had no way to avoid the impact.

Patricia was in a bit of a daze. Was it quick?

The cyborg hesitated just long enough for Patricia to sense the lie. Yes. It was all over quickly.

How? Why? Patricia was having trouble knowing what to say, what to ask.

The other woman took pity on her.

"Patricia. I don’t know what you may have heard about your brother recently and I know you have no reason to trust me or believe me. But please know that your brother was not a terrorist. He was not a murderer. He was a damn hero! He died doing something noble and selfless.

"I was with him towards the end. He had no regrets about his actions. Please don’t believe the lies about him. I know there was some bad blood between him and the rest of you, his family. But believe me when I say he regretted those… incidents.

He told me that phrase long ago…the one about Ermintrude. He told me that, if anything ever happened to him, I should contact you, use that phrase, and explain what had happened. That’s why I contacted you today. To fulfill a promise I made long ago.

Patricia stared numbly at the screen. Who are…were… you to him?

Again, the woman hesitated, unconsciously giving away more information than her words told. I was his friend. We worked as soldiers together long ago, and again more recently.

What about the body? Patricia asked. There would have to be a funeral, of course. She could already see herself butting heads with Father over it. He probably wouldn’t even attend.

I’m sorry, but we could not recover it. The authorities probably have it. You could contact them about repatriation to Poldori. But you might have to wait a while for it to be released.

Which authorities?

Sol system, Mars specifically. But you may have to fight with ImpSec over the remains.

Patricia felt a tear trickle down her cheek. How long ago did this occur?

Klane shook her head. Nine days ago, near the Martian city of Olympus.

The name sparked a memory. Wait? Olympus? Wasn’t there some kind of terror attack there a week or so ago?

That’s how they’re labeling it. But, like I said, don’t believe everything you hear. James was no terrorist. Klane said.

Patricia nodded. Thank you for telling me. I imagine it was not easy for you to make contact with me.

Klane nodded. As I said, I made a promise to him long ago. I keep my promises. As for the security surrounding you… let’s just say I have some helpful friends to deal with that. The authorities shouldn’t even know this conversation took place.

One last thing, Miss… er… Klane. Was he alone when he died? Did he..? I mean, was there anyone special to him? The thought of him dying alone and unloved was not a pleasant one.

Klane hesitated again, but this time Patricia wasn’t quite able to understand why, only that the woman wasn’t being entirely truthful with her response. Yes, there was someone that he had been spending time with. Someone special, I suppose. She was in the flyer with him. She didn’t make it either.

I see. At least he wasn’t alone at the very end. Patricia sighed.

The other woman flinched slightly, once again giving away the truth of the matter. If there’s nothing more, I should go. Maintaining the comms link carries an increased risk of detection with each passing second. Klane stated.

Of course. Thank you for telling me. I am grateful that he had friends around him that he could rely on. Patricia told her.

The cyborg flinched more strongly, as if Patricia had slapped her through the screen.

She blames herself for what happened! Patricia realized. However, before she could say anything, or ask any more questions, the screen went dark only to be replaced moments later with the legend ‘signal lost’.

She sat back then, thinking about her brother.

He had left the family years and years ago, to pursue his own dreams and interests. He had little time for being rich, she recalled. He was always sneaking off and doing something that Father disapproved of. Not that she herself had been approving at the time. In fact, she had managed to get him into trouble with Father so many times. She had tried to apologize to him, just before he left for the last time, for all those moments where she had snitched on him. He had just laughed, hugged her and told her that was what little sisters were for. Then he’d given her...

Her eyes darted to the metal cabinet in the corner of the room. Rising, she hurried over to it and placed her palm against the lock plate. The cabinet clicked and the door opened at a pull.

Inside were all the things she wasn’t supposed to still have. As an adult, certain things were expected of her. Her father assumed that she had disposed of the contents of the cabinet many years previously. But she hadn’t. Father liked to think that everyone did what he told them, but the reality was simply that they hid things from him instead. No one really had the stomach to stand up to him apart from James. The rest of them worked on the ‘what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him’ principle.

Not that her father was a tyrant. But things had to be done his way and he didn’t suffer fools gladly. Unfortunately, the list of things he considered foolish was a long one and sentimentality was high up on that list.

Inside the cabinet were assorted boxes containing the things from her childhood. Things she couldn’t bear to part with. Things that spoke of happier times when responsibility meant simply remembering to use all of the cutlery at dinner, not just the one fork.

At the bottom of the cabinet was a large box full of stuffed toys. She pulled it out, rummaged around in it for a few moments, smiling as she saw old friends among the animals and then…

Ermintrude!

The fluffy pink pig had been James’ last gift to her, as he went away, along with the little secret code he made her memorize. She hadn’t understood the saying at the time, being too young for such things. But she remembered Ermintrude. The pig had spent a long time being her confidante and bed companion. Too long, according to Father. He had finally threatened to burn her if Patricia didn’t get rid of her.

But Patricia had not disposed of Ermintrude. She’d just been hidden. What Father didn’t know, didn’t hurt him.

Ermintrude was the last link she had now between herself and the brother she had idolized and adored. The brother she hadn’t seen in so many years and missed terribly.

The brother who was now dead.

Patricia collapsed in a heap on the floor of her office, clutching Ermintrude to her breast fiercely and letting the grief overwhelm her entirely.

CHAPTER ONE

What do we do now? Donard Rames asked. He stood in the cargo module that served as the group’s meeting area. Around him, every single member of the crews of both the Ulysses and Morebaeus stood or sat dejectedly. There was an air of defeat about them that pervaded the massive cargo module completely.

What can we do? Lewis pointed out snidely. She had taken to wearing a scarf around her head to hide the implants that had been put in her skull at Tantalus Station.

We don’t have the resources or manpower to do much other than run and hide. Miko Harvan nodded. Our options are almost non-existent.

Klane, sitting to one side, looked around at the people remaining. There were just fourteen of them left now. The failure of the last mission and the loss of Hamilton, Johnson and LeGault had brought home to them the reality of the situation they were facing. Their numbers were dwindling.

Before, despite knowing the severity of the situation, there had been a feeling that they might just gain the upper hand, given sufficient time and planning. Their initial forays had been successful, giving them a false sense of optimism that they might succeed if they were determined enough.

But now… Now they had lost three people from their already small number. Not only that, but the mission’s objective had failed. The scientist they had hoped to extract had been killed along with the others; along with their leader. For that was what Hamilton had been to them - a driving force. Someone who gave them direction and came up with the ideas and plans.

Three people down and nothing to show for it. She thought. Such a waste.

She felt her emotions rising up again. Losing three people was bad enough, but one of those three…

Hamilton had been more than a leader, more than a friend, more than simply a fellow soldier. Once upon a time they had been lovers, a situation that had ended badly and left them not on speaking terms for years. But a lot had happened to both of them in the intervening years. When the opportunity to work with him again had come up, she had been cautious, but hopeful. Their professionalism had carried them through to the point where they had been able to bury the hatchet about the past, to move on. To rebuild bridges that had been burned.

And then he had died.

She felt herself beginning to get emotional again. She was not good with emotions, even less so with sympathetic looks and comments. Such things tended to bring out the worst in her.

Best concentrate on the matter at hand.

We could always head back to the colony, lay low for a while, rest and recuperate, then plan what to next to do. Grimes suggested. He was Rames’ executive officer.

The comment sounded reasonable and was well received. There were nodding heads around the room. Most of the people wanted to run away and hide. To lick their wounds.

Klane knew that, to return to the colony would spell the end of any resistance they might offer to the enemy. Once planetside, there would be an inertia against action that would build until it was impossible to overcome. Whatever they were going to do, it had to be done now, or it would not be done at all.

We could try and find another scientist? Carl suggested. The big Enjun sat on one side of her. He, like her, had been on the recent mission. Like her, he was still recovering from his injuries.

We’d never get back into Sol system. That place is crawling with warships. Grimes argued. Even Veltin couldn’t get us in and out of there now!

Veltin, the pilot, frowned in actual thought and stroked his chin slowly. I think I might manage it. It would be very risky, though.

Rames burst out laughing, the sound oddly inappropriate under the circumstances. Grimes is just making a joke, Mr. Veltin. We’re not going back there.

Klane had seen the pilot giving real thought to the problem. Joke or not, Veltin believed it was possible, but unlikely. For him to call it very risky was the equivalent of anyone else saying ‘certain suicide’.

There is something else we could look into. Jones said quietly. The black man sat on her other side, his arms and legs in quickcasts from the punishment he’d taken during the last mission.

This would be the ‘assistant’ that Tane mentioned? Rames asked. They had given him a full report on the mission and all that had happened.

Jones nodded. It’s the only lead we have. This artifact he talked about, it could be useful.

If we can find the assistant that he entrusted it to. Carl said.

I have some more information about that. Jones stated. All eyes fixed on him.

When he and I were in the back of the APC, he talked some more about her. You already know he changed his identity by assuming the ID’s of dead people. He used his mental abilities to convince records clerks that their death was a mistake and that he was the person in question. It seemed he did the same for his assistant. He obtained a new identity for her and wiped the memory of it from the clerks’ minds. But he told me her new identity.

They were listening now. Klane had to admit, Jones was getting good at holding a crowd.

Anyway, He continued. The authorities looked for her under her original identity. That’s why they never found her. She arranged passage off Mars under her assumed identity. He went so far as to meet the crew and implant false memories suggesting that she had never been aboard at all. Messed with their heads. He told me the name of the ship, too and I know the rough date when all this happened.

So, we could trace the ship’s destination and then pick up her trail from there? Harvan nodded thoughtfully.

That’s my thought. Jones agreed. The crew might not remember her being on board, but there will be records of the ship’s movements. Those can’t easily be altered. We can find out where the vessel went, then see where she went after that.

She probably made a lot of journeys, to help throw off the scent. Klane pointed out. It was what she would have done.

Jones nodded. "Probably. But it’s a starting point. More importantly, most of the work can be done by me and the tech guys from onboard the Ulysses. We can hack into the flight systems of whatever ports she used. We might have to travel around the Empire a little, but at least we won’t have to resort to firefights to get results."

And what if we do find her? Rames asked. She’s hardly likely to want to be found, let alone tell us where she hid this artifact.

I would think dropping Tane’s name would be sufficient. Klane said. If not, then explaining the Jada-Ko-Vari might help.

If all else fails I might be able to drug her into compliance. Anderton, the medical officer suggested. Rames’ gave him an appraising look and the medic shrugged. Desperate times…

Kidnapping people didn’t go so well for us last time. Grimes noted.

Well, there is a point you all seem to have forgotten. Carl’s rumble was quiet, but drew all their attentions.

This artifact, even if we do get our hands on it, was some sort of psionic device. How are we supposed to access the knowledge it holds?

More than a few eyes turned immediately towards Lewis.

Wait a damn minute! She protested. I might be an official menace to society now, but I know jack-shit about all this crap.

You know more than the rest of us. Jones pointed out.

Besides, Klane added. I’m sure that most psions learn as they go. It isn’t like the Empire runs any kind of schooling program, now is it?

Lewis scowled. Maybe I should start practicing on making people’s heads explode? Any volunteers?

There was predictably, nothing but silence.

Well, Jones added eventually. It’s an option. It seems like the only lead we have right now.

Rames nodded slowly but was silent.

Klane stood up slowly. Partly it was for effect and partly because she was still stiff from the injuries she had received bouncing around in the APC. Everyone looked at her.

Look. She said. "Our last mission was a dismal failure. We lost half our team and the objective was not secured. By any military standards, that’s a clusterfuck.

"But we did obtain some information. It’s not much, I’ll grant you that. It’s the slimmest of leads that may not even pan out. But it is something. We owe it to those that did not come back to at least follow up on this lead. Otherwise, they died for nothing. I’m not prepared to let their sacrifice be in vain.

"We all knew there would be casualties at some point. We all knew that we had almost no hope of success. But we also know that we are all that stands between the invaders and the extinction of our species. Humanity is oblivious to the enemy in their midst. We are all that they have.

"We can’t simply give in and run away. We have to do whatever we can, however we can. To do any less is to betray our families, our friends, and all those who, unknowingly, rely on us to save them.

I don’t intend to give in. I mean to fight until the last. Because if I don’t, how could I ever look myself in the mirror again, knowing that I simply ran away?

She turned and walked off amid the cargo containers until she was lost from sight.

*****

Carl found her about twenty minutes later. She had found her way to the side of the water tank they had used as a makeshift hot tub. The water was cold now, but she was trailing a hand through the water anyway, idly passing time.

Nice speech. He said by way of greeting.

She glanced at him and smiled. Did it work?

Seems to have. He nodded. Everyone is determined to follow up this assistant lead as far as necessary.

Good. Then the others won’t have died for nothing.

Carl regarded her pensively. You ever going to tell me what happened between you and Hamilton? You were close, right?

I’ll tell you someday. She promised. When I’m less upset about his death. For now, just let it lie, okay?

He nodded and started to turn away. Is Kate really your name?

She snorted. Yeah. Though nobody’s called me that for a long time.

Then Klane is a surname?

She shook her head. Not exactly, no.

I get it, another time. He said sadly, beginning to leave. I’ll leave you be.

She let him get a few steps before she said. Katherine. My name is Katherine. Or Kate, if you prefer. My surname is Lane.

He turned back to her. Katherine Lane. Sounds almost respectable!

She laughed for the first time in a long while. Almost! She agreed.

So how come ‘Klane’?

She sighed. Mercenary logistics.

He frowned in puzzlement.

When I joined my first group of mercs, the uniforms all had name labels sewn onto them. Depending on the length of your name you got either just a surname, or your first initial and your surname. So I was ‘K.Lane’. It took precisely zero seconds for the idiots to start calling me Klane. I guess it just read easier that way.

He smiled. So it’s a nickname of sorts?

She shrugged. I suppose so. It just kind of stuck. I kind of liked it, anyhow, so I kept on using it. The only people that know me as ‘Kate’ are those I get close to.

I’ll take it as a compliment, then, that I know it. Carl said.

Needless to say, She added. If I find anyone else starting to call me that, I’ll know who to blame!

My lips are sealed! He grinned.

She ran her hand through the water again. We need to warm this tank up again. I feel the need for some heat therapy.

Naked heat therapy? His grin widened.

Her remaining organic eye regarded him mischievously.

Is there any other sort?

CHAPTER TWO

Her prison was well appointed. There was a bed, a desk and a chair and a large screen built into the wall that displayed any of a thousand channels of entertainment. She even had a sofa that she could sit, or lie, on whilst watching the screen. There was a small, separate bathroom with a basin, toilet and shower cubicle.

Someone brought her breakfast at eight in the morning, lunch at one and an evening meal at seven. The food was simple and the man that brought it never spoke to her, no matter how much she begged and cajoled.

She had been there over a week now, ever since she had been ‘rescued’ by the odd Mr. Philips. He had taken her and the body of Hamilton away on his equally odd shuttle. The flight had been short, no more than ten minutes, and she had passed out as they were landing. When she had woken, she was in the bed in the room, her injuries tended and nearly healed.

She was still coming to terms with the fact that the others had abandoned her. Clearly the explosion, or whatever it was that had downed the gunship she had been in, was a major attack, but she had thought they might wait, or search for survivors.

When she had staggered out of the dust to the crash site she had been overwhelmed to find herself alone.

At first, she had thought that maybe everyone had been killed. But a brief search revealed the APC with just the old man and the ImpSec agent dead inside. The others had escaped and she, it seemed, was the sole person left behind. Even her fellow ejectee, LeGault, was nowhere to be seen. Either he had landed closer to the crash area, or much farther away. Either way, he was not present.

The worst part, though, was Hamilton himself. When she had looked into the flyer’s wreckage and seen his shattered body, she had felt something die inside herself. Hamilton had been larger than life. He always had a plan, always an alternative. To see him dead made her realize at last exactly how futile their guerilla war against Walsh was. Hamilton had been more than their leader. He had been their hope. With him gone, what hope was left?

She suspected that her role in things was also at an end.

Mr. Philips had taken her and Hamilton’s body from the crash site and she had ended up imprisoned in this room. Wherever that was. She suspected it was some government facility, some holding place. But the powers that be seemed in no hurry to question her. Nor, from the vast screen that dominated one wall, did they seem intent on keeping her in the dark.

She watched the news channels mostly, drinking in the reports and always looking for more. Sometimes she allowed herself to watch dramas or comedies, but the emotions the actors tried to elicit from their viewers were lost on her. Most of the time she felt nothing but numbness.

The news stations reported the ‘Olympus Incident’ as a failed attempt by terrorists to destroy Olympus with an orbital strike. ImpSec and the military were painted as the heroes who had discovered and thwarted the plot just in the nick of time. The terrorists, it was said, had ended up destroying themselves with their own device as they tried to flee the authorities.

There was a death toll, of course. Mostly valiant soldiers and ImpSec agents but also civilians ‘caught in the crossfire’ or murdered in cold blood by the terrorists.

She knew a lot of people had died during their attempted escape but even so, the numbers stated by the media seemed wildly exaggerated.

Nothing changes. She thought. Two hundred years later and the media is still obsessed with sensationalism.

Not for the first time she wished her family hadn’t had her body frozen. The future, from her perspective, was far from the squeaky clean, glittering promise that it had been made out was ‘just around the corner’. It was grimy, it was sleazy and society had not improved much as far as she had been able to determine. In fact, it was pretty much unchanged.

We have a bigger sandbox to play in now, but we’re still children.

She kept the big screen on most of the day. It was background noise that distracted her from thinking about how alone and isolated she was. At the same time, however, it also reminded her how far she was from everything that she had ever known and loved. There was an old phrase that came to mind concerning people that had left their origins behind. Something about not being able to go back. In her case, it was literally true, but not for the reasons the saying had been created to highlight. She was two hundred years and more away from everything she had called home and there was nothing and no one left to care about her. It was beyond depressing.

She had never really felt that she had fitted into the future world. The peculiar bigotry displayed by almost everyone she met when they discovered she was a ‘re-breather’, as the slang had it, was at first amusing. However as she came to understand how widespread the bigotry was it was it changed first to annoying her and then to depressing her. Finally, she’d developed a simple way of armoring herself against it – she didn’t get close to people. Not more than simple friendship, at any rate, and she never told them about her ‘age’.

Of course, there were those that wanted to get to know her better. But usually they were the ones she wouldn’t have touched with the proverbial barge-pole. The explanation of her origin became a fantastically easy way to rid herself of such pests. But still, to be rejected – even if she did want that – was hurtful and damaging. A slow erosion of her self-esteem that threatened to make her a recluse.

Hamilton had been the first person who hadn’t seemed remotely upset by her past. He’d been more curious than anything. When she’d finally taken a chance on him, to see how interested he really was, he hadn’t disappointed her. She didn’t think he’d really understood just how much his acceptance of her for who she was had meant to her. They’d never really had the time to discuss much. In fact, their time together had been far too short with everything else that had been going on. But she had treasured it, nonetheless.

And then I went and blew it.

There had been that moment, when she saw him kill someone. He had been brutally efficient, doing it, she believed, without a moment’s hesitation or thought. It was all instinctual. A soldier following his training and responding to a threat the only way he knew how.

The logical part of her knew that he’d had to do it. There was no question. The man he killed was himself a soldier and had already shot Klane. Hamilton was just doing what was necessary to protect them all.

However, the image of the instant of the man’s death was seared into her mind. The way that the soldier’s head had exploded like an overripe melon hit by a shotgun blast would not be one that she would ever forget. It had all been so sudden and repulsive that she had thrown up inside her helmet.

It was at that moment that she realized that Hamilton wasn’t quite the man she had thought he was. Perhaps she had romanticized his image because of the way that he had accepted her for her own faults. In that instant, though, she had felt a wave of – almost certainly unjustified – revulsion for him.

And he saw it on my face. She thought sadly.

His face had changed then, too. Just as he had seen how she felt in that instant, so she saw how he reacted to her revulsion of him. She’d seen it in his eyes. Seen the disappointment as he saw her reaction. Seen the realization in his face that it was over between them.

Afterwards she hadn’t known how to react to him, so she kept to herself for the most part. She didn’t want it to be over, but there was to be no time for either of them to talk it through. No time for anything except the mad dash for freedom. A dash that had ended in his death.

As upsetting as that had been, when she’d stumbled out of the dust to find his body in the wreckage, it paled when she realized that he’d known all along that he had no ejection mechanism. Known it the moment he had told her and LeGault to eject. He’d known he was going to die.

It was upsetting because, once she had realized it, she understood that she had misjudged him over the killing of the soldier. It upset her because she had done to him what so many others had done to her. Judged her on one small thing and then dismissed her. She had done exactly the same to him. Judged him on one small act and then pushed him away.

And now it was too late to say sorry. It was something she would regret for the rest of her life.

Not that her life expectancy seemed terribly good at the moment. Whoever Philips was, he likely did not have her best interests at heart.

Whatever his motives for bringing her here, it seemed that she was just going to have to wait on his convenience.

CHAPTER THREE

Fenris cruised slowly in the depths of Sol’s space. It was far out beyond most patrol routes, having been assigned there due to the recent troubles on Mars. Normally, its route was a much simpler course that befitted its status as a training vessel.

Fenris was a battle-cruiser. Or at least, once upon a time it had been. But Fenris was also an old ship. Very old by modern standards. Despite upgrades and at least two full refits, it was now considered totally obsolete as a front-line vessel, fit only for training recruits.

It had been outfitted with modern consoles and interfaces in order to familiarize green sailors with the equipment they would use if they graduated. But the systems they connected to were not state-of-the-art. They were not top-line drives, weapons, or ancillary systems.

But neither were they the antiques that most people expected, for Fenris had one ace card in its deck.

Its captain.

Captain Lionel Westinghouse was in his late fifties, entirely bald but with a brilliant white goatee and mustache that he took great pride in. In fact, he took almost as much pride in his facial hair as he did in his ship. A ship that he had struggled to obtain command of.

As a young naval recruit he, like most, had harbored dreams of commanding his own ship. In fact, it was one of the primary motivators for his joining the Imperial Navy. Fate, however, had played him a cruel hand early on. A shuttle crash left him paralyzed down one side of his body. Unable to complete even the simple physical requirements of a naval officer meant that his dream evaporated before he’d even had a chance to try and make it a reality.

The neurological damage, at the time, was incurable. But the military looked after its own and Lionel was assigned to other duties. Desk-bound duties.

Logistics and Procurement.

At first, he had hated it with a passion. It was not what he wanted. The looks of pity he received as he struggled with his condition did nothing to improve his outlook. His future looked uncompromisingly dull and tedious.

Then he had begun to see the opportunities and he began to apply himself to the long-term task he set himself.

People needed him. As a logistics officer, he quickly realized he had the power to help those