Joe Devlin: And the Renegades’ Toil (Space Academy Series Book 5)

by James Thomas

  The Admiral seemed to lose his composure for a moment, then cleared his facial expressions of any irritation. “Ms. Holder,” said the admiral with heated emotion in his voice. “—now that’s taking a huge leap, from an enemy we have been fighting for years, to allies. Not only . . . no way, but never on my watch. Those two, the Grax and the Tourians, I remind you are allied together against us.”

  Judy’s face cracked a small smile before disappearing. Her seat now seemed higher in height compared to the Admiral’s desk. She had gotten the admiral to show his anger against both the Tourians and the Grax. This led her into the next questions that she had been saving.

  “Admiral,” she said. “But surely you have heard the rumors that the Tourians are actually a lost tribe of Bandor, the descendants of Chief Tourian. So, if these reports are true, we would have something in common and could reunite with our lost relatives, wouldn’t you say?”

  This time the Admiral’s face almost popped with rage from the question. No one had publicly acknowledged who the Tourians truly were. It was a closely kept secret, a rumor, and it needed to stay that.

  The news broadcast returned to the live feed of Judy.

  “You just saw a small excerpt of my one-on-one interview with Admiral Pearson. If you think I was hard-hitting with questions that need to be answered about the real war, then wait until you see the full interview in only four days. Are the Tourians our lost descendants or is it a hoax? Watch the rest . . ..”

  With a wave of Vi Ryant’s hand, the feed stopped in mid-sentence.

  Vi Ryant knew that Admiral Pearson was definitely lying. He had known of the Tourians enslavement and their origin. Clearly, Admiral Pearson was attempting to justify destroying the Grax on the news networks; however, the reporter had caused some doubt of his true intentions. The admiral did not have the full support from the Bandorians for expanding the war, with rumors running amuck, and the reporter was trying to get to the truth.

  Vi Ryant knew if the Tourians and Bandorians united against the Grax, things would go from bad to worse before she had time to strike back. Vi Ryant was willing to free the Tourians, but not the way the Judy Holder had described. If Vi Ryant had not followed her brother’s guidance, the Tourians would still be allies. Her people could be living in the mines as a temporary home. The idea of an armistice wasn’t out of the picture if she was to take care of her people and provide them a place to live in peace until they could rebuild the space station.

  7

  NO TAKE BACKS

  “Without it, I can’t free my people,” said Sadar.

  “That’s why we’re here,” said Joe. “I gave it to my father for safekeeping. Now, we just need to know what he did with it or gave it to.”

  “What do you mean, gave it to?” questioned Sadar, his eyes narrowing.

  “Well, I’m not quite sure if he still has it or the ISF,” replied Joe. “These things are complicated, you know.”

  “Really, complicated,” snapped Sadar.

  “Well, it’s not like I was going to ever see you again or . . .,” Joe tried to explain, then laughed nervously. “Let’s just take the next step here and find out. I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

  Joe was telling the truth. At that moment, he wasn’t sure if his father still had the Black Medallion. Joe was glad to be rid of it, so he had mixed feelings about asking for it back. Especially since his dad had already forgiven him. This time it would be hard to explain why, so he was dreading the question.

  Joe stepped up the stairs to his parent’s front door.

  “Joe, you know you’re breaking at least sixteen ISF regulations, not to mention several citizen laws,” said Augie.

  “Augie!” replied Joe as the front door swung open.

  “Joe, my darling!” exclaimed June. She wasn’t expecting him but always had a welcoming smile. “Who’s your friend—Augie?”

  “Hello Mother, no, Augie is . . . well, I’ll explain later” Joe avoided answering her question. “Is Dad home?”

  “Well, okay, I’ll get your dad. He’s napping upstairs.”

  “Mom don’t!”

  “Oh, don’t worry, he’s been napping too long!”

  ***

  Joe and Sadar waited for Joe’s father, Don Devlin, on the livingroom couch. Yet they both sat stiff as boards, their waists and knees at 90-degree angles, like schoolboys in detention waiting for the principal. Joe would have welcomed detention in any form rather than talking to his father in this circumstance.

  “Joe!” said his father in a commanding voice. “—Tell me I’m not seeing what I think I’m . . .,” said Don Devlin.

  “Dad . . . I can explain—but first I need to borrow the Black Medallion back from you.” There it was. He had just blurted it out. Joe’s face changed at least three shades of red while his father just looked at them in amazement. Joe, of course, had shot the only round he had, and he wasn’t sure if it was aimed at a target. Definitely—not at his father, he hoped!

  “And for what reason?” asked Don.

  “Huh!” said Joe, filled with anguish for having to ask. “To give to Sadar!”

  “I’m assuming Sadar is the Tourian Boy God, who’s sitting next to you, in Bandor territory. Am I right?”

  “Yes! But . . .,” Joe knew his next words would not have survived anyway, so he purposely killed them.

  “Son, are you mad!” retorted his father. Don did not usually elevate his voice, so his family felt like a heart was being pierced when he did.

  Joe knew his father had a valid point. Joe hadn’t reasoned it out in advance. Sure, he thought of it beforehand, but with the impromptu meeting, everything blurred his thoughts. Now he was sitting in front of his father, asking for the Black Medallion to give to an ISF declared enemy. This was surely treason in the eyes of the ISF.

  Before Joe could answer the question, a knock came at the door. Now for the first time, Joe’s father looked nervous. “Did anyone follow you?”

  “I don’t think so,” replied Joe.

  “You seem to not be thinking lately,” said Don in a stern tone.

  The knock came louder the second time, echoing off the walls of the wood covered foyer.

  “You two—go upstairs and disappear,” said Don in a semi-hushed voice. “Don’t make any noises if you know what’s good for you.”

  Don approached his front door slowly and looked through its peephole, seeing what looked like an Ensign in an ISF uniform, but he did not recognize the young officer.

  The door swung open to the inside.

  “Commander Devlin, sir!”

  “Yes, Ensign . . .”

  “Ensign Joseph Brock, sir!”

  “Ensign Brock, what can I do for you?”

  The Ensign looked around, seeming edgy. “May I come inside?”

  “State your Business, Ensign, and remember whom you are talking to!”

  “Yes, sir! I’m here to talk to you,” said Ensign Brock nervously.

  “I can see that, Ensign!” replied Don.

  “Commander,” I mean to . . . to . . ., Sir!” he mumbled, lost in his words.

  “Well, Ensign, but for what reason?” replied Don trying to help him out.

  “Commander, may I come inside,” repeated Ensign Brock as he tried to focus and find the courage, he had lost just moments earlier. He looked around as if he could find it on the front porch. “What I have to say is better said inside.” Brock’s eyebrows were filling with sweat from anxiety

  “Sure, it seems that today is just one of those days!”

  “What’s that, Sir?” asked Ensign Brock.

  “Don’t worry Ensign, just come inside,” replied Don.

  8

  REPENTANT

  Mines of Huldra

  The mines of Huldra were scorching hot, in contrast to the planet’s ice-covered surface. Subterranean water was scarce and only in the form of steam. Yet water was overly abundant on the surface in its frozen form. Below the surface, it took hours to c
ondense enough water to drink from the steam vents below. On the surface, one had to use life-sustaining body heat to melt ice. Life on Huldra was hard for the Tourians, regardless of being enslaved.

  In a cruel twist to the paradox, the Grax guards would not allow the Tourian slaves to carry ice into the mines where it could be melted with ease. All water was controlled by the Grax, who had selected a few Tourians for distribution with strict enforcement over the others. The intent was to divide the Tourians amongst themselves to better control them.

  Half of the slaves were assigned work on the surface while the other half labored in the mines, further dividing them. They were always torn between the extremes, moving to surface to get away from the scorching heat. Then back to mines to keep from freezing to death. The swap between the two locations was only permitted at the end of each shift, no matter the physical conditions the workers experienced.

  Cave paintings adorned the walls below the surface, created by the Graxs’ ancestors who had lived there as the planet slowly froze around them. Eventually, the ancestors ventured into Space. The space station’s completion allowed the Grax to leave the mines and expand into their current state.

  In turn, the Grax sentries had no compassion for the Tourians, whom they thought were privileged to live in the mines of their ancestors. At the same time, the Grax were left to struggle, packed like vermin in their spaceships. The only other place available for both the Grax and the Tourians was in the Tourian Void, but the war prevented the relocation.

  ***

  From far below the surface, a lonely slave woman approached a group of her Tourian kinsfolk.

  “Water?” asked Kilian to one of her kinfolks.

  “Away!” replied one Tourian, but mostly she received no replies.

  Her kinsfolk wanted nothing to do with a traitor. They considered her lucky to be alive after what she had done to them. So, in turn, they all shunned her, looking away as she walked by.

  “Water,” she repeated. “I have water.” It was no longer her job, but she had her own water source and was trying to make amends.

  Kilian had once volunteered to serve water and she had gladly enforced the harsh water restrictions for the Grax. That was in the past, or so she wished. Enforcing the Grax’s water restrictions was only a small misdeed compared to her earlier actions, which were the beginning of Kilian’s betrayals.

  “Water! You must need some water. Please take all that I have. I mean no harm,” echoed Kilian.

  Kilian was once a strong and resourceful Tourian who had been trusted and admired. Though taller when measured against most of her kind, she now walked in a slump, figuratively broken over from her own vanity.

  “Don’t even ask,” said one Tourian before he turned his back to her.

  “Even you, too! How can I ever make it up to anyone if you shun your wife?” Her estranged husband was now avoiding her. Even her child, who hugged her father’s side, looked on from under his arm with disgust. When Kilian smiled and looked directly at her daughter, the little girl withdrew behind her father’s arm.

  She reached her hand out to touch her child, who moved out of reach to the protected side of her father. Kilian slumped further in self-pity.

  Kilian had once worked with their Living God. However, she was now one among many slaves and suffered with them, but the commonality ended there. No Tourian wanted anything to do with her. They chose thirst over the sympathizer, for their courage was still unbroken. Only a few had been divided among the Tourians, the ones who willingly served the water.

  Kilian had deliberately rubbed ice onto her clothing, freezing it to the suit while working on the surface. She hastily extracted the moisture for every ounce of water she could get, working stealthily so the guards would not catch on and punish her. But the guards had stopped watching her since she was no longer a threat. They would give her water just to watch her getting shunned by her people. That was punishment enough. To the guards’ amusement, she now refused the water. Instead, she used the ice that she had carefully melted into a metal canteen. When she tried to share the lifesaving water with other Tourians, they refused her.

  “Here, take some. The guards aren’t looking,” said Kilian to one of the young boys. He refused, and all Tourians rejected it. No matter how thirsty or how many times she offered, she was scorned and rejected every time. The other Tourians were willing to die of thirst than get caught taking water from a traitor.

  Finally, she saw an old friend. “Rane, here, you need some water. Let me give you what I have left,” said Kilian.

  Rane turned slowly toward Kilian. “Haven’t you done enough my old friend?”

  “Yes, old friends. Here, my canteen . . . water!”

  “Old friends! That’s all you have left,” said Rane. Then he spit next to Kilian’s foot. “But I will suck water from dirt before I ever rely on traitors.” He turned away before going back to his work.

  Fine, thought Kilian, I am better without him and the others. It was not her fault that their Living God had perished at the Grax hands. No one had seen it, but with the cruelty of their enslavement, no one doubted when the Grax declared it. The Death of the Living God had been broadcast over the aural speaker for days. After that, the Tourians all placed the full blame upon Kilian.

  Kilian felt they were wrong and one day she would have to reckon with demons for the truth. For now, she had to survive, which was one thing she did well. Besides, if she was not valuable to her own kind anymore, she would find a way to become relevant again, which meant learning the many passages of the mines.

  9

  MEETING OF THE MINDS

  Ensign Brock did not want to be sitting down for what he had to discuss with Commander Devlin. He tried his best to look the part of a professional military officer, while he sat on the couch of the most celebrated family on Bandor. They were solely responsible for saving countless lives several times over.

  Brock knew he had to look confident to considering his audience. However, each time he assumed textbook military posture, the seat cushion would slowly compress, causing him to slump backward. Making matters worse, he was sinking into the couch unevenly with one side first, then the other. He was bobbing in a sea of green cushions, similar to a buoy tilting from the wave action. When he readjusted himself back to being erect, it looked as if he was drowning and trying to make it back to the surface after the ship had gone down.

  Commander Devlin was looking at him with amusement as the Ensign struggled. The couch was old and worn out, so the commander expected it. Still, he found it amusing.

  “Commander Devlin, I know your son,” said Ensign Brock.

  “Yes, most do after what he’s been up to lately,” replied Commander Devlin, who turned towards the hallway of the stairs to speak, which Brock found odd. The Commander raised his voice, adding, “Too notorious in my opinion! Don’t you think?”

  Ensign Brock was not sure what to think. He looked towards the stairway, but no one there. He became a little more nervous as he wondered if someone else was in the house. “Sir . . . ah . . . your whole family . . . is . . . well, except for your wife. The Black Med . . .” He realized his mistake immediately, but it was already too late. He had already received an odd look from the commander, but Ensign Brock continued, trying to cover. “Of course, I mean it’s just folklore . . . or something like . . .”

  Commander Devlin raised his hand to stop the Ensign. “Yes, I understand clearly, Ensign.”

  Commander Devlin canted his head slightly toward the stairs for his voice to carry up to where Joe and the Tourian Boy were stowed away. “You seem uncomfortable sitting. My Joe seems to be a person who doesn’t like to stay still, either! Growing pains, I guess! You two have that in common so far—among other things, I assume?”

  The Commander again turned his voice toward Brock. “Now, state your purpose, Ensign! The sun’s setting and I’m getting thirsty for an adult beverage.”

  “Sir, are you talking to someone in the h
allway?” asked Brock as he tried to focus. He quickly corrected himself, “Sorry Sir, like you asked, my purpose. You see, I was on the command ship when Joe rescued you and the others, and I might have heard some things that an Ensign shouldn’t have.”

  Commander Devlin’s facial expression changed from one of annoyance to a focused probe. He was bothered by thoughts of his son getting into another mess. Now Ensign Brock seemed to be in the crosshairs of another mix-up, besides that with the Boy God.

  “Like?” asked Commander Devlin.

  “Sir, like Admiral Pearson knowing that Joe and the crew were on a one-way trip against the Grax,” he stated nervously.

  “Well, Ensign, that’s nothing new,” replied the Commander. “Just part of duty in the ISF, one might say!” However, it surprised him, but he was not letting it show to the Ensign. It seemed that the Admiral was going beyond the normal expectations of duty to Bandor. To out a cadet into danger was beyond rationale for the rules of war.

  “Sir, no . . . I mean . . .” He chose his next words carefully. “He wanted Joe and you out of the picture for his personal gain.”

  “Tread lightly, Ensign, those are traitorous words,” replied Commander Devlin.

  That seemed to shut Brock completely down. His face turned red, his eyes squeezed together from strain, narrowing his view of the Commander. Brock already had enough to worry about. Now being called a traitor angered him because he was just the opposite. He loved his world and did not want to see anyone gain personally over it.

  “Joseph,” said Joe as he popped into the room, surprising both Brock and Joe’s father. Joe’s timing was perfect since Brock had reached his limit and was about to burst like an over-heated boiler full of anger instead of steam. “Dad, his older brother was on the mission with Emilie when she was shot down. I think you should listen to what he has to say.”