by P P Corcoran
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
John terminated the link and looked into the faces of the Thunder troopers. “Now get yourselves to Med Bay and get seen too.” Both troopers hesitated before Phillipa cleared her throat and spoke up.
“We would prefer to render honors until the marines can relieve us, Admiral. I -” Phillipa flung a look to Semple. “We, do not want our men left on their own.”
John realized the troopers would have to be dragged kicking and screaming away if he tried to have them removed before they could be properly relieved. John brought himself to the position of attention and saluted the troopers holding the position until they managed to return his salute as best they could.
“You are relieved Lieutenant Papadomas, Staff Sergeant Semple. It would be my honor and privilege to render honors to the troopers of Team Nine until relieved.”
“I stand relieved, Admiral.”
Satisfied her troopers would be not left alone Papadomas, aided by Semple, shuffled out of the bay.
Twenty minutes later a detail of marines in their dress blues marched slowly into Landing Bay One and relieved a five-star admiral who had stood at parade rest watching over the fallen.
EPILOGUE
NORSELAND | 127 LIGHT-YEARS FROM EARTH
A chill wind blew unnoticed across the wooden deck of the stone farmhouse the builder had hewn from the land surrounding the house. Admittedly he had had the assistance of machinery which had made the work easier, but he still considered the house to have been hand built and anyone who familiar with his volatile temper knew better than to argue with him.
The PAD lying on the wooden table beside the now cool mug of coffee vibrated softly and danced across the rough surface heading for an impeding fall to the deck. With a grunt Olaf Helsett lifted the PAD, the built-in biometric scanner matched his DNA to the one it held in its secure memory and activated the small screen.
“Must be Sunday.” Olaf said aloud without expecting a reply for he was the only inhabitant of the small island that was surrounded by a dark green brooding ocean which crashed against the high cliffs of Olaf’s self-imposed isolation.
Norseland had proved to be the ideal place for a man like Olaf who, even when Secretary of Defense in President Coston’s government, Olaf had shunned the media preferring to get on with work rather than hog the limelight. The day he had left government Olaf had felt like a huge cloud had been lifted and he was free to enjoy life once more. When his daughter had none to subtly dropped him a brochure containing details of a startup colony financed by a private consortium who were looking for a number of hardy souls to make them up to the required complement to qualify for a mining license from the Bureau of Colonization. The promise of free land combined with a startup loan for a minimum commitment of ten years to the colony project was something which Olaf had found appealing. A divorcee of long standing and a daughter who had forged her own life and career there was little to tie Olaf to Earth. Putting his affairs in order had been a lot easier than he had thought it would have been and within a month he was surveying the island that would become his new home and digging the foundations for his house.
The PAD beeped reminding him that it was awaiting instructions. Olaf tapped the blinking download icon and the small device connected with the satellite in stationary orbit high above him that in turn linked into the planet wide data network. Each Sunday a comms drone would arrive from Earth and update the network with all the latest comings and goings of the distant worlds of the expanding Commonwealth. Olaf may have chosen to retreat from society in general, but he did like to keep abreast of events.
Another soft beep signaled the completion of the download and Olaf took a gulp of his now cold coffee before settling back to catch up with events beyond his island. The lead story was the ongoing deterioration of relations between the Turak and the Commonwealth. The media were bandying around words like ‘crisis’ and ‘impending hostilities’ however, the more level headed among them pointed out that the three way armistice agreement recently negotiated between the Commonwealth, the Saiph and the Alonan Empire guaranteed the free exchange of military technologies among other things. That meant the Commonwealth navies now had not only antimatter weaponry but energy shield technology that would keep any Turak aggression in check for the foreseeable future.
An article from a Garundan news agency concerning the securing of a deal with Caretaker Geoll of the Saiph to repatriate all refugees from their current quasi prison on Tanil to the Saiph Dyson Sphere caught Olaf’s eye and he earmarked it for later reading. Olaf skimmed the remainder of the weekly update and was about to move on to his private correspondence when an otherwise innocuous entry in the business section caused him to pause. Opening the article, Olaf felt a sense of satisfaction fill him as he read the story. Zurich Lines, one of Earth’s, if not the Commonwealth’s, largest shipping conglomerates had been forced to call in the receivers. The business had made a number of bad investments under the leadership of Bryer Anderson and its creditors had pulled the plug. The journalist who had penned the article predicted that the business would be broken up and sold off to its competitors while Bryer Anderson himself faced financial ruin. Olaf’s roaring belly laugh that rolled across the harsh landscape around his house caused a number of the local bird like creatures to take fright and flee into the heavy sky, with a flurry of loud squawking.
Chortling to himself Olaf called up his private correspondence. Among the usual heap of holographic images his daughter sent to him every week detailing the exploits of his grandchild's latest attempts to walk and crawl was a rather official looking email from the Office of the Commonwealth Combined Joint Chiefs of Staff. Olaf tapped the address line opening the message. Contained within was a personal invitation from Admiral Ai Jing requesting his presence at the Admirals Dining Out, the navy’s way of saying farewell to a retiring officer. Attached was a second invitation to the Dining In of the new Chairman, Admiral John Radford. Both events were scheduled for three weeks hence.
Raising his eyes from the PAD, Olaf allowed them to scan the view before him. The not quite green grass covering the undulating ground before dropping away sharply at the cliffs edge. The water, its waves cresting to form the white foam that ancient sailors had called White Horses named after the mythical god Poseidon, king of the sea, who one day had created horses and the white crest of the wave was seen as the horses mane while the sound of the crashing waves resembled that made by a hundred horses hooves thundering across the ground.
No, decided Olaf, as he tapped on his PAD sending an auto reply declining the invitations. Let the outside world deal with the legacy of events. At long last he had found his place in the universe and he was happy.
Returning the PAD to the table he lifted his mug and went to get some fresh coffee.
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ABOUT
PP CORCORAN
AUTHOR OF THE AMAZON bestselling Saiph Series, PP Corcoran writes fast-paced military science fiction because he gets to mix his two loves; shoot em ups and science. A twenty-two-year veteran of the British Army, Paul began his writing career in 2014. After serving all round the world, this native of Scotland now lives in Northern Ireland and writes epic space opera for a living.
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