D3F3CT: A Twin Suns Novella

By Olive J. Kelley

When reluctant IPF Lieutenant Sebastian Wilder performs a confidential check-in on a top-secret lab, the last thing he expects to find is a highly illegal cloning facility that manufactures identical girls as products for the filthy rich. When he rescues the sole remaining 'product' on a split-decision, c

• Language: English
• Publisher: Olive J. Kelley
• Release date: Feb 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798987824658

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

A thousand-odd identical soldiers in black and navy kevlar stand in perfect, rigid rows across the airfield. The cement beneath their boots is striped with old paint, worn and chipped in places from the thousands of take-offs and landings that have occurred here. Ragland Galactic Air Base hosts both inner-atmosphere planes and larger, more expensive interplanetary IPF ships.

Lieutenant Commander Sebastian Wilder– one of the highest ranking men on base and the current overseer of the training exercise occurring below– looks over the airstrip with a grim nausea broiling in his throat.

They look well disciplined, Captain, Wilder says steadily right as the sea of men turn in sync, marching forward until a voice rings out calling for them to halt.

Thank you, Lieutenant, Captain Kumar replies. There’s a tight, pinched smile on his face that Sebastian Wilder knows well: a desperate attempt to avoid thinking about how much impact this check-in will have on his career. The soldiers below turn on their heels and face them, raise their rifles, and a loud, synchronous clap of leather on gunmetal rings out. The men hoist the guns up their shoulders and look down the sights.

Now, they’re all equipped with AC-190 rifles, another man, Technical Sergeant Kozlowski, who is in charge of the armory and equipment on base, says. His hands are poised up at his chest, bent at the wrists, and he gestures vaguely as he describes the guns. They’re able to fire one hundred and eighty rounds per minute, and each man is equipped with enough bullets to reload three times, giving them nearly a thousand shots in five minutes.

I see, Sebastian says and peers down at the men as they’re relieved. The precise lines of men below disperse after one loud instruction and a smaller group– a hundred or so– fall back into line below their platform. What’s next?

Weapons display, Captain Kumar says and walks along the length of the raised platform the higher-ranked men are standing on. General Benevides should be joining us on the gun range.

Sebastian’s stomach churns. His hat feels tighter somehow around his skull, but any adjustments mid-display are out of regulations. He simply clasps his hands behind his back and follows Captain Kumar down the long metal staircase. Tech Sergeant Kozlowski salutes and departs, surely to critique each minute hesitation in the formation.

The gun range is indoors. It’s an enormous room, hundreds of meters long in each direction, with the highest tech target practice available. Every target can be manually adjusted to any distance, any shape, and, depending on what the soldiers are preparing for, any movement pattern. There are dozens of different guns available for the soldiers to practice with, as each individual is taught a myriad of weapons before they’re assigned to their first posting. Sniper rifles, pistols, automatic rifles, et cetera–Sebastian has trained with each kind in turn. For a man of his rank and position, it’s vital to be versatile. At any moment he could be sent out on an intel mission, assigned a platoon to take over a city, or entrusted to teach the next generation of officers. Most often, he only carries a basic pistol, the generic assigned weapon for all Intergalactic Police Force officers.

The two enter and, as each one passes through the doorway, remove their hats in a ripple of practiced movements before stuffing them into the long, thin pocket on the outside leg of their flight suits.

The rest of the men file into the shooting range behind their commanders and a half dozen take their places in small booths. The guns– rifles– are already set and each man takes up their own. In a series of identical metal clicks, they unload and reload the weapons in sync before unlatching the safety and falling into the correct posture to shoot.

Sebastian eyes them all. Each soldier has a clean rifle hoisted up, stock pressed against their shoulder and scope resting a few inches from their eye. Captain Kumar does a lap, surveying the stances and postures of each man, and just as he returns to Sebastian’s side, the door slides open.

Sorry for my tardiness, men, General Benevides says as he briskly crosses the room. Wilder and Kumar snap to attention the second they’re aware of his presence, but the man waves them off. No need for all that. Go ahead and show me what you’ve got, Captain.

A contractor– one of the men paid to maintain Ragland, but not trained or paid the same as the soldiers– hands each man a pair of leather earmuffs.

The demonstration is impressive; the targets are shredded within seconds. Sebastian has seen more than his fair share of bodies fall to the same fate, skin riddled with scorching bullets and oozing blood. The men are deadly shots–all six of them could kill a dozen people in a heartbeat and they’re trained not to feel remorse.

Excellent, Benevides murmurs from beside Sebastian as the men swap out the targets. His tone is reverent. Inspired. Violence comes simply to the famed General Andre Benevides, but this showing is stirring even to a man drenched in blood.

Another half-dozen soldiers enter the booths, this time equipped with sniper rifles. They perform the same if not better, and the third set is stronger still. By the end of it, there are thirty-six destroyed, human-shaped targets. Sebastian Wilder exhales a held breath. He has killed people before– it’s impossible to rise through the ranks in the IPF without getting blood on your hands– but he tries not to let himself become apathetic. For the men expertly trained with weapons of mass destruction, carnage becomes commonplace. Killing becomes as easy as breathing. The blood on their hands is so familiar that shredded paper is a breath of relief.

Sebastian aches to remember what innocence tastes like.

Beautiful work, Benevides says and claps his hand down on Captain Kumar’s shoulder. They’re certainly prepared for more situations like the riots happening in Fontus.

I believe so too, sir, Kumar says with a pinched smile barely concealing his pleased expression. Sebastian keeps his face schooled carefully neutral–showing emotions and sharing opinions gets you killed in the IPF. If you show mercy or hesitance, you’re out. I believe our sharpshooter division will be ready for any of the next violent uprisings.

Benevides smiles, a shark scenting blood on the water. "Good."

Sebastian steps aside as the two men speak. He pulls one of the most recent targets between his fingers to inspect the shots. Two bullets went wide, barely skimming the outside of the human outline on the paper target, and Sebastian waves over the soldier who was in the fifth booth.

Sir? the nervous man asks and stands at attention.

Your shots are going wide, Sebastian says quietly and runs his finger over the two bullet holes. Pull the trigger on the exhale, or they’ll go off-target like this.

The soldier looks at the paper and nods. Yes sir, he says and salutes.

Sebastian shakes his head and pinches tighter. The paper wrinkles in his grip.

If you aren’t useful, you will be discharged, he says, quiet enough that his superiors can’t hear. If you miss, you will be killed. This is your life, do you understand?

The soldier’s eyes are blown wide and his hand twitches where his fingers barely touch his forehead. Yes, sir, he repeats, quieter to match Sebastian’s own low sincerity.

Dismissed. Go back to your squadron, Sebastian says and tugs the target from the pin. He squeezes it between his two palms until it’s an unrecognizable piece of crumpled paper that he tosses into the trash chute by the exit. Benevides and Kumar dismiss the rest of the men for lunch just as Sebastian returns to complete their trio.

This has been most enlightening, Captain Kumar, the general says and looks back at the racks of guns between each shooting lane. You’re doing well with these men.

Thank you, General, Kumar says with that same pinched expression, the kind that comes from trying too hard to fake neutrality when something has gone precisely how you wanted it to.

I’ll see you tomorrow in the base-wide debrief for yesterday’s riot, correct? Benevides asks, and Kumar nods. It’s a jerky, forced movement, and the short-cut regulation hairs on the top of his head barely sway.

Yes sir.

Excellent. You’re dismissed, then.

Kumar and the rest of his men disperse at once. Benevides brings an almost weighty presence to the room that even Sebastian, the otherwise highest ranking man in the room, feels. Benevides is the one person on base currently with the power to get any one of them discharged, decommissioned, or assigned… Well, anywhere. Sebastian heard a rumor once that he assigned a man to a three-year stint on Doda just because he took the last serving of fries in the mess.

Lieutenant Commander Wilder, walk with me, General Benevides says and gestures towards the exit.

Sebastian hesitates a half-step but follows the general out of the gun range and down a short hallway leading to the exterior of the gun range. They both re-don their hats the moment they’re outside, and Sebastian continues to follow.

The IPF base on Janus is the largest in the galaxy. When building them, funds were distributed based on population density, and Janus is the most heavily populated planet since Old Earth. The base itself is built on one of the miniscule patches of the planet not occupied by Fontus. Janus is every bit an ecumenopolis– a city-planet– in everything but name. The rare swaths of land not developed all those years ago only weren’t due to cost, but the IPF had the military budget of every Old Earth country put together by the time it was their turn to place stakes.

Benevides leads them over a large stretch of dark asphalt and into an empty hangar. The man turns and tugs his hat off as they enter. The gold pin on his hat– a stylized planet, struck through with