The Legacy of Earth (Mandate Book 2)

by J. S. Harbour

  She grabbed my hand, turned her head, and kissed me—hard!

  Her breath was hot and her lips soft and sweet.

  “Say it,” I said.

  “Say what?”

  “That word,” I said.

  “Knulla?” she said, giggling.

  I kissed her lips while they were mid-word.

  “Say it again,” I demanded.

  “Knul—”

  I kissed her harder.

  “Damn, that’s so . . . hot.”

  She shifted around to look into my eyes and said, softly, “Knulla mig.”

  In my state of mind, she could have been speaking Cantonese and I would have gotten the gist of it.

  I raised her t-shirt over her head while she shimmied out of her jeans. Moments later I was inside her, on the floor, and a deep moan came unbidden from deep within me.

  The secretary of state was watching us from the TV.

  Lena came quickly, which was merciful. I lost track of time—blacked out a couple times—only passively aware of program changes on the TV while we made love. It started with a hint of desperation, then we found our stride.

  I was eternally thankful that Ortega had not once come into my mind. Little surprise, though, with Lena’s lovely form enveloped around me, our mouths locked as I pulled and stroked her hair. My mind had blanked. For the first time in months, I felt the rare, blissful, blessed peace that a man knows so rarely in life.

  “I guess we’re legit now?” she said in a husky voice. “If you just knocked me up, it’ll be triplets.”

  I smiled the smile of a starving man who had just finished a five-course meal.

  The national alert filled the screen and remained for at least five minutes with a constant beep-hum. I rolled over next to her on the floor. I started to nod off with Lena resting her head on my chest when a voice suddenly broke our reverie.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have an update,” a reporter’s voice suddenly said, breaking the silence and startling both of us. A sky view of a university campus—apparently M.I.T.—was being shot by a helicopter camera crew.

  The reporter continued, “Only moments ago, a nuclear device was found and disabled near the M.I.T. campus.”

  “Oh, tack Gud!” Lena whispered, then turned and kissed me, then stopped and burst into tears. “I’m sorry, it’s just that, I’m feeling overwhelmed. . . .”

  I stared at the screen, mouth gaping, then came to my senses. “I know how you feel, my . . . uh . . . ljuvlig tjej. I can’t process all this stuff. It’s too much all at once.” My Swedish was still a bit short of conversational.

  “My bror lives in Boston! I can’t believe this just happened all of a sudden, and before I could even worry about him, it was already over!”

  The way her tongue moved behind her lips while she was speaking unknown words just begged me to kiss her again.

  “Huh? I thought your brother was in Stockholm?”

  “No, dumma pojke. He got a job here last year.”

  “Darling, I’m sorry, but the way your lips pout when you talk . . . it’s so damn sexy. I know, I know, bad timing . . . but I am what I am.”

  “No, min kära! It is a lovely compliment,” she said. Then, to tease me, she stuck her lips out, pouting, and said, “är jag söt?”

  “Are you . . . pretty? Are you kidding me? You’re a goddess. Xena. Aphrodite. Helen. Wonder Woman.”

  “Wonder—? Ha, ha! What?”

  “You’ve never heard of Wonder Woman?”

  “No!” Lena said. “Is that some kinky thing?”

  “Ah, never mind,” I said, smiling at her. I’ve always had a thing for superhero girls. “Besides, you’re calling me kinky? With all your swearing?”

  She finally did elbow me in the ribs.

  We sat there for quite a while, mesmerized by the news.

  “The fuck is going on, Dal? First, the bay area, and now this—why Boston? Is this world war three?” Lena said, sounding angrier by the minute.

  Tears welled up in my eyes. I suddenly came to my senses and shook off the momentary loss of control, and started to pull my pants back on.

  “I . . . what did you say? I thought you were the religious type?”

  She gasped, stood, and looked at me with a shocked look. “Religious? Seriously, Dallas? Do religious people say knulla? You tell me, your pappa is the preacher.”

  I stood back for a moment, taking in her naked form, and couldn’t help but smile. It was my duty on behalf of all men, through the ages. And I suspect that women through the ages demanded it too. Stare and take it all in. There is something to be said for an angry naked woman. My God. . . . The world is in jeopardy and all can think about is—Please get angry and hit me with those naked fists and kick me with those naked legs.

  I couldn’t believe my ears when I said, instead, “You said so yourself when we first met, that you go to church every Sunday, and were raised in a strict—”

  Goddammit! Don’t start a fight, dumbass! She’s fucking naked, with that pissed-off look that turns you the hell on like nitrous in a turbocharged engine.

  Lena reached up and cupped my face in her hands and looked me in the eyes with an amused smile that caused her dimples to lengthen. She said, “Oh, I see. You misunderstood, dear. Tell me, sir: Does a sexually repressed religiösa flicka behave like that?” She gestured to the floor and then poked me in the chest, still wearing nothing but that huge smile.

  Oh. My. God.

  I grabbed her waist and shoved her back onto the sofa a few feet away. Not violently, but a bit rough. She was startled at first, then smiled. Looked away shyly. Pouted her lips. Looked up at me sideways. Beckoned to me with a finger.

  I think most men are afraid to slap a woman because of the abuse stigma. But, truth be told, when done playfully, most women like it little rough. Not too rough, but just a hint of danger. Old instincts? Just a suspicion, but based on first-hand experience.

  Some uncertain time later, I said, “We’d better get dressed. I wasn’t thinking. Dad could walk in the door any minute.”

  “Din pappa? Oh no! You didn’t tell me anyone was coming home!”

  I was finally able to pay attention to the news. To my shame, nukes going off in America hadn’t concerned me nearly as much as it should have an hour ago. Thus is the mind of a man. I might be a GMO, but I still had an old-school libido, freak that I am.

  We both finished dressing. I had been so overcome with desire and befuddled by the emergency broadcast that it hadn’t occurred to me that someone could have walked in on us.

  I tried a dozen news apps and ended up watching the coverage on BBC. I’ve always preferred the opinion of foreign news. It seemed less . . . manipulated.

  “I don’t understand this,” I said. “Where are these attacks coming from? Is this war or terrorism? I just signed up, so, am I still going to basic? Will I be run through quick training and rushed into battle? Or, is the US firing nukes back at anyone? I just . . . I don’t know . . . what to think . . . what to do! Why don’t they tell us anything useful? Goddamn TV!”

  Lena wrapped her arms around me. I held her head and gently stroked her hair. It felt good, being with her, here and now.

  No, it felt . . . perfect.

  This was the most perfect moment of my entire life. Right here. Right now. It would be easy to lose your mind in a situation like this. Deep down, I knew it was an overload of hormones; but, at that moment, I loved her with a primal ferocity that I’d never felt before. She was mine . . . today. That’s as far as the thought went.

  I looked down at her face. She looked into my eyes. That same gentle, sweet expression that took my breath away every time I looked at her. No hidden motives. No manipulation. No games. Just honest vulnerability backed with inner strength of character.

  I can’t leave her now. It’s not just the sex. Reason enough, but it’s not just that. I know now that. . . .

  “Lena?”

  She frowned suddenly, put a hand on my lips
. “I know. Don’t spoil the moment.”

  But, I’m so in love with you. . . .

  Chapter 5

  Shakedown Cruise

  “Captain on the bridge!”

  “As you were,” Captain Dandere Long said as he entered the bridge of the UNS Lexington, naval designation SCVF-2—a fusion-powered space cruiser with a fighter wing.

  The bridge was a large oval thirty feet across. Three large screens simulated windows, giving the captain a view of the bow. Tech stations lined the walls, manned by junior officers, and the helm station stood in the center.

  Captain Long made a quick round of the bridge, taking in details and asking questions of his officers. He had a reputation for being meticulous—even ruthless—in his attention to detail on the bridge. Off duty, he was quite personable: laughing and relaxing with the men and women under his command. Long treasured his crew, his ship, his career. This was his family, his entire life. There was no work/life balance: no wife or kids back home.

  Captain Long had worked hard to achieve his position and that’s where his ambition ended—with command of his own ship and no further. No interest in the admiralty. To rise to his station, he had served on a dozen ships of various classes from freighter to carrier, working in every ship’s station until finally being promoted to executive officer on a destroyer.

  His first command was the refit USS George Washington. His name was in the running for command of the Ford-class USS Enterprise when his name was mentioned for the UNS Lexington. This had both surprised and pleased him. Space was an unknown theater of war. There was no greater adventure to be had than command of a new space warship, the first class of its kind.

  But, leave the US Navy for the UNSC?

  That had kept him up at night.

  The Navy didn’t want to lose him, either, so he was loaned to the UNSC—indefinitely with the option to return at his discretion. That had settled it.

  “Report,” he announced, addressing the officer of the deck. That was the routine so the executive officer—Commander Belchek Plaas—replied, “Sir, we picked up a call from a freighter in distress.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Long said.

  “This is Merrick Lucas, captain of the freighter, Redondo, on approach to Luna City. We’re under attack by an unknown ship! They’re trying to knock out our engines! Is anyone out there? Please, help!”

  Captain Long noted the location of the Redondo on a RADAR track of traffic on the Earth side of the Moon. The Redondo, however, would not see the Lexington due to her stealthy RADAR signature. “What class is that freighter?”

  “Old Promise class,” Commander Plaas said, bringing the class specifications up on the right-hand screen.

  The captain frowned. They’d seen too many of the old Seerva ships appropriated by indies for smuggling and piracy. And why not? There were hundreds of them, still hauling ores back to Earth from deep space, unmanned and undefended. Easy prey.

  Captain Long stood next to Cmdr. Plaas on the right side of the bridge and whispered, “Bloody garbage scow. Would be doing the Lunies a favor by ignoring the call.”

  “Didn’t quite catch that, sir,” Cmdr. Plaas said with a crooked smile.

  Captain Long was one of seven naval captains who had been on the short list for command of the Lexington nine months ago. The list had dwindled due to age-related withdrawals. Long, at forty-eight, was the youngest carrier captain in the US Navy. Two had backed out due to their aversion to space, leaving Long and two others, and the other two were in their sixties. Age did come up in military service—loyal long-haul officers were rewarded, but it could be a liability in the new theater of space.

  Captain Long had a stern face and disciplined body. His command style was authoritative, confident, and as prickly as the stubble on his chin. His intense, small black eyes made junior officers stand ramrod straight at the mere sight of him. He had a reputation for never repeating himself and speaking only when necessary. Junior officers learned quickly that you don’t fool around near the captain—while on duty. That was a significant distinction. Off duty, the brass knuckles were put away, so to speak.

  “Plot an intercept course,” Long said.

  “Very well. Jones, give me an intercept course to the freighter,” the XO said.

  “Aye, sir,” Chief Petty Officer Jones said. He was stationed at the navigation console at the aft right station.

  Cmdr. Plaas was a big man who did not need to raise his voice with junior officers. His orders were carried out, efficiently and in order, it was as simple as that. Anyone who failed to appreciate the situation was transferred off the ship. That was threat enough—being removed from an elite assignment on a new Illustrious-class space cruiser was tantamount to career suicide. No one would have use for such an officer in any meaningful assignment.

  Sometimes, however, a crew member—enlisted or commissioned—just couldn’t cut space duty and had to be shipped back down the well. That had happened with four of his crew so far—three enlisted and one officer. Cmdr. Plaas handled those cases with tact. An otherwise excellent seaman did not always make an excellent spacer.

  Plaas had been a submariner during most of his career, down in the depths, serving on tactical nuclear subs. The Lexington’s crew was all American, just as the Illustrious was fully British. It was more efficient that way. Space was similar to the deep (in the many ways one can get killed by a single mistake), so submariners made good crew candidates. There was no learning from major mistakes under the sea or in space. All a commander could hope was that mistakes did not cost lives.

  “Course plotted,” Jones said.

  “Very well. Lieutenant Williamson, lock it in,” Cmdr. Plaas said.

  “Yes, sir,” Lt. Williamson said from the helm at the center of the bridge. In addition to the three large screens in front usually showing the forward view during flight, the helm station had two status screens to assist the helm officer. The captain’s raised chair was on the left side of the bridge, and as far as the XO could recall over the past half-year, it had never been used. The XO’s chair mirrored the captain’s seat on the right, and it was used frequently since Cmdr. Plaas seldom left the bridge. Or, so it seemed.

  The aft screens were divided into four status displays each, showing every detail of the ship. The officer on deck would need to quickly note the status of every system when requested: reactors, engines, fuel, life support, hull integrity, electromagnetic shielding, weapons systems, supplies, cargo bays, navigation, damage control, fighter wing, and finer details as needed.

  Two doors flanked the aft screens, opening to hallways that curved inward and back a dozen yards toward a junction at the spinal hall that tunneled through the ship. The space between the halls, aft of the bridge, was the wing commander’s office. The captain’s ready room was off the port hall, and opposite beyond a door in the starboard hall was the officer’s mess. The entire deck was effectively part of the bridge.

  The Lexington was patrolling the Moon after a week in drydock for upgrades to several key systems, including the fighter wing. Research and development was aggressively creating new upgrades for reactors, engines, and weapons systems. The tech was advancing too quickly to work them all into a single, cohesive ship design, so the tech would be implemented in staged upgrades. It took a year to build an aircraft carrier, and once built it would not see a drydock again until its first refit after at least a decade of service. It was the same for a space cruiser—in theory.

  The Lexington’s sister ship, the Illustrious, manned by a British crew, was the prototype of her class. As such, the Illustrious had spent more time in drydock than on patrol. Working out issues with the first two hulls to enter service would reduce downtime for the next ship to come online—the UNS Aurora, expected within a year, to be manned by a Russian crew.

  The keels of two more were taking up space at Skydock Station: the Majesteux and the Nanjing. The admiralty of the UNSC, representing the five nations, decided to revise the desig
n aggressively while the Illustrious continued to operate. The Lexington, therefore, represented a Mark II design.

  Due to the technical problems still plaguing the ship on a daily basis, Cmdr. Plaas had felt it necessary to give the crew a little breathing room with regard to discipline. Good for morale to let them blow off a little steam now and then without serious repercussions. He did have his limits, though. There would come a time when the shakedown cruise ended and it was time for staunch professionalism.

  “First combat encounter?” Cmdr. Plaas said, staring at the tactical screen front and center.

  The captain harrumphed. “First for the class, as far as I’m aware. The brass will use a fine-tooth comb on us. We have to be flawless.”

  “By the book,” the XO said.

  “By the book, with improvisation when necessary,” the captain said. “How are you with ship’s systems?”

  The XO let out his breath. “I’m good with most of it now, but the reactors are still a mystery.”

  “I understand. Beyond me as well. But we had to deal with tech overload every day down on the surface. Don’t see this as an insurmountable problem.”

  “I’d like to agree, sir, but I don’t share your optimism,” Plaas said. “Used to be, if there was a reactor problem, any one of us could take a cue from the chief and make adjustments. Not on the Lex.”

  A space cruiser was altogether different from a sea vessel in every respect. A massive aircraft carrier is designed for buoyancy with the heaviest engineering in decks below the water line. A spacecraft built for war had to be designed for high-gravity thrust and maneuvering. The Illustrious class’ design started with a hollow pipe for a spine and was assembled from the inside-out. The heaviest ship systems were arranged radially along the length of the spine, with the reactors and engines at the rear.

  Four huge, blocky Smirnov fusion reactors were arrayed radially in front of the four massive engines. It was black-box technology which did not sit well with Long.