This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2016
A Kindle Scout selection
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
This book is dedicated to Aaron, Taylor, and Steven. The best sons a father could wish for . . . mostly.
Also by Steven L. Hawk:
Peace Warrior
Peace Army
Peace World
Creeper Town
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Prologue
Left . . .
Left . . .
Left, right, left.
Inexorably onward he marched.
With each tired step, vicious bolts of agony shot upward. They began at the soles of his feet and sliced through the blisters that had formed on the back of each heel. Continuing upward, the tendrils of pain cut a scorching path through aching calves and knees before settling firmly in his thighs and lower back. Having reached their final destination, the bolts turned into hot knives of torture that twisted and scraped.
Eli looked left and right at the barren, sandy Telgoran landscape and trudged forward. Occasionally, he veered to the right or left to skirt a boulder or to circumvent yet another constellation of scattered, head-size rocks—what he now thought of as “Telgoran rock gardens.” At other times, he found himself staring into the distance, at one of the mysterious, dark, cave-like entrances that led to the Telgoran underground. They seemed to be everywhere, and he wondered, as he always did, if any of the planet’s original inhabitants were standing in the darkness, hidden from view, watching as the exhausted humans trudged slowly past. He never saw one, but he used the thought of being observed as additional motivation to keep his feet moving. Mostly, he just fixed his eyes on a spot ten meters ahead and kept walking. Forward was the goal, and forward was the direction he always came back to.
The pack on his back—nearly half his own body weight—was burden enough to cause many of his peers to drop out. But the pack was the least of his worries. He was used to that kind of pain—the kind that comes from hard work, the kind that can be conquered with a strong body and a bitter refusal to say, “Flock it. I quit.” By itself, that pain would be relatively easy. But when combined with all the other dynamics in play, the current trek seemed never-ending. The heavy pack, his Ginny shotgun, the loneliness of the hike, and the blistering desert they traversed all weighed heavily on the body and the mind.
And the boots! The worst pain of all was caused by the boots.
The standard-issue boots the sergeants had given them were beautiful. Made from the orange leather of the ninal, a Telgoran deerlike species. They were unlike anything he had ever seen. But they were worse than uncomfortable. Stiff and unforgiving, the leather didn’t mold to the foot the way a boot should. While others had marveled over the receipt of such an important part of their gear, he had held them in his hands, and after a quick, five-second inspection, recognized them as a problem. Armies lived and died by their feet. While others took care not to scratch their boots, he took every opportunity to abuse them and work them into shape.
Despite the tired aching of his feet, a quick look over his shoulder at the forms struggling along behind him proved that his efforts to break in his footgear hadn’t been completely in vain. Although he struggled, the rest of the training unit stretched out for more than a kilometer across the sandy terrain behind him—the closest, no less than a hundred meters away. Most of them were hobbling or limping.
At a few centimeters under two meters, he was shorter than many of the other recruits. Most would describe him as wiry and lean. Few, if any, random onlookers would have placed their bets on him to be leading the pack in such a grueling, lengthy forced march. Yet here he was. His body, well toned from a lifetime of physical training, was not as bulky as a majority of his male counterparts, who, without exception, had been raised on Earth. Unlike his peers, Eli hadn’t called the planet where he was born “home” for nearly a dozen years. Fully two-thirds of his life had been spent on Waa, the planet where the Shiale Alliance was headquartered. He kept that fact to himself, though. He had no desire to open himself up for the inevitable litany of questions and probing the knowledge would provoke.
Although he doubted they would need to be told after this fiasco, Eli made a mental note to ensure every other recruit worked on breaking in their boots before the next march. The need for him to pass along such obviously important information made him shake his head. Their Minith sergeants had to know about the problem and should have warned their charges before throwing them into the first forced march of their training. He wondered if withholding the information was an oversight, or if it was done with some purpose in mind. He couldn’t fathom any rational reason, but it was possible the boots were some form of cruel test.
One thing was certain, though. Their footgear was an excellent example of form over function, and form failed miserably. If he had his own well-worn boots on his feet, he’d be kilometers ahead. His feet would be tired, but not blistered. Every step wouldn’t be a rage against the torture that threatened him.
Left . . .
Left . . .
Left, right, left.
When his body demanded that he stop moving—cried out that he couldn’t take another step—the litany moved him forward. The unspoken words beat out a worn rhythm he had come to rely upon. As long as the words continued to generate forward movement, he would place his faith in them. He had no idea what he would do if they ever failed him. He refused to consider that possibility.
Left . . .
Left . . .
Left, right, left.
The heat of the Telgoran sun beat down on his shoulders, creating bothersome rivulets that began beneath his helmet and flowed downward. His uniform was soaked with the salted clamminess of his body’s sweat, and he paused his silent chant long enough to turn his head and suck down a quick gulp of water. The plastic spout that trailed over his shoulder and into the water pouch stored in his pack was hot, as was the mouthful of life-sustaining liquid it dispensed. He wanted a second gulp. Hell, he wanted to drain the reservoir dry, but he kept his desire in check. He didn’t know how much farther they had to go, and the last thing he wanted was to drop out because he couldn’t ration his water allowance properly.
Discipline. They’re teaching you discipline. Ah! It’s another test.
Despite his intense discomfort, the s
udden flash of understanding caused him to smile. There was a reason behind the madness. Somehow, that made the harsh reality of his situation bearable. He silently scolded himself for wallowing in the pain of his present circumstance and made a personal commitment to expand his view of the nonstop training and torture—to look for explanations and reasons, to view the cruelties of the right now through a broader lens. With a nod to himself, his mind turned to the long-term. This hell can’t last forever, he told himself for the hundredth time. For the ten-thousandth time, he repeated the mantra.
Left . . .
Left . . .
Left, right, left.
A sense of renewed purpose and strength flowed through Eli’s body. He lengthened his step, increased his pace, and pushed on through the pain.
Chapter 1
General Grant Justice, Supreme Commander of the Alliance Defense Force, scanned the holo-page that floated above the shiny agsel surface of his desk. The memo took less than five seconds to digest. With a curt wave of his hand, he deleted the irritating message and swallowed the curse that was trying to force its way past his lips.
The Minith general in charge of the forces on Telgora was complaining again. Apparently, the posting didn’t meet the standards “appropriate to one of his social position,” and he needed more authority and resources. As if two hundred thousand soldiers—nearly half of their entire contingent of ground troops—weren’t already posted there under his direct control. It was typical Minith posturing, meant to position the general for the next plum assignment. For Grant, it was just one more thing that demanded his attention. His demeanor and skills weren’t suited for administration. Unfortunately, administrative tasks represented the majority of his job.
Grant was a soldier, trained to fight and lead men in battle. Despite turning fifty on his last birthday, he still preferred working with fellow soldiers in the field to manning a desk—even when that desk was the senior military desk in the Alliance.
The old soldier stood up and walked to the large window that looked out over a northern view of the Waa capital. It wasn’t Earth, but from forty stories up, it was still quite a sight. Over the tops of the shiny metal and glass buildings that made up the skyline, he spied the launch area for the alliance mother ships in the distance. He wondered briefly if any of the departing ships were bound for Earth. He felt a sudden pang of longing that quickly dissipated. Earth wasn’t his home now. It hadn’t been his home for a long, long time.
The general stared out at the planet that was now his home and considered how unlikely it was for him to be standing where he now stood. What were the odds, he wondered? Man wasn’t the strongest species in the universe. The Minith, with their large, apelike bodies could easily beat most humans into submission when they met hand-to-hand on a battlefield. No contest. Even the Telgorans—those thin, seven-foot-tall warriors with muscles like corded steel—could defeat the strongest human in a contest of pure strength. And their quickness, oh, the Telgoran quickness. Again, no contest.
At best, man came in a distant third—and that was only when comparing the species with which they were intimately familiar. No doubt, there were even stronger species as you left the tiny corner of the universe where humans existed and delved deeper into the stars.
Nor was man the smartest species. The Waa, those little green aliens, with the large, dark, almond-shaped eyes, claimed that trait. Their unparalleled ability to design and build remarkable spaceships and other technological wonders gave credence to the claim. Though they held a secret most non-Waa would never know—the ability to read minds. They could learn a task or a process simply by observing your thoughts as you performed the work or thought through a problem. It was, without a doubt, the most efficient self-learning method possible. Yes, it was hard to argue with their claim of being a “nine” on the intelligence scale. Humans and Minith, in comparison, were a “six” and a “four,” respectively.
Yet, despite not being the strongest, nor the fastest, nor the most intelligent species, of the four sentient species that were involved in the Peace Wars, man had come out on top. Aided by the tall, reed-thin Telgorans and the diminutive, green Waa, the humans of Earth defeated the aggressive, planet-robbing Minith on the three primary planets where the four races now lived: Earth, Waa and Telgora. The Minith home planet was destroyed during the war, along with most of their people.
Grant understood his place in the scheme of things. He had played a significant role—perhaps the most significant, he conceded with a sigh—in humanity’s eventual victory over the Minith. But it wasn’t because he was the strongest, fastest or smartest person on Earth. He was merely a solitary warrior who possessed a rare set of skills and a unique view.
While most on Earth believed that peace and conformity were ideals humanity should endeavor to achieve, Grant’s personal philosophy was somewhat more antiquated. While he believed in the concept of peace (not the capitalized “Peace” that most humans worshiped), he understood that true peace requires the ability and willingness to protect yourself from those who would take advantage. Like the Minith, who had used the humans’ unwavering obedience to peace to enslave Earth and steal its resources.
Grant was the catalyst that saw mankind build its first army in more than four hundred years. It was an army that defeated the Minith invaders on Earth and then took the battle to the planets of Telgora and Waa, where the aliens also held power. Eventually, the Minith were soundly beaten, and their home world was destroyed.
With the Minith defeated, the citizens of Earth wanted nothing more than to retract back to their lonely, overcrowded planet, bury their collective heads, and forget about life beyond their tiny solar system. But Grant refused to let that happen. Nature abhors a vacuum, and leaving Waa and Telgora to their own fates would have created an atmosphere for the Minith to reclaim what they had lost—or worse. Grant recognized the threat and quickly started the process of forming an alliance between the four races.
Bringing the Waa and the Telgorans into the alliance had proved easier than getting his own race engaged. Despite their victory over the Minith, most humans still despised and feared their former enemy. It took months of intense deliberation and debate within Earth’s Leadership Council, before the surviving Minith were grudgingly recognized as war refugees. It took even more time for humanity to finally accept them as an equal member of an alliance.
Grant argued tirelessly on behalf of his previous foe, and for very good reasons. The Minith were already residing on Telgora and Waa. With their home planet destroyed, it was obvious they weren’t going anywhere. Add to that the Minith culture norm that required subservience when defeated in battle, and the decision was a no-brainer. Perhaps most importantly, threats far greater than the Minith existed outside of their backwater corner of the universe, and Grant needed experienced fighters. Although their political influence was minor, they filled the need for soldiers, and were now a major component of the alliance military. Their willingness and ability to fight readily offset the distaste that most humans had for war.
Now, a dozen years after the end of the Peace Wars, the Shiale Alliance was still in its infancy. In some ways, it was doing well. Prosperity seemed within reach. The mining and sale of agsel ore to the planets and races that existed outside the Alliance provided resources and wealth. This wealth supported all partner-members and fostered growth on the two dozen planets that made up their tiny corner of the galaxy.
In other ways, survival was an ongoing struggle. Cracks were appearing—caused by both internal and external forces—that threatened the alliance. Those cracks now kept Grant awake at night.
He rubbed his eyes and shook his head at how he had come to be here in this place, at this time. He hadn’t asked for this, had never wanted the mantle that had been forced upon his shoulders. On the other hand, he knew it hadn’t been possible to refuse the demands of three disparate races. The Waa hadn’t cared, but the leaders of Earth, the Minith, and the Telgorans had all made his
oversight of their combined fighting forces a requirement of their signing onto the Shiale Alliance. It had been twelve years and he wondered if they would ever allow him to retire the post—or if he’d be locked into the position until he croaked. Hell, the thought made him want to jump on the next ship bound for the outer ring and lock horns with the next Zrthn battle carrier ship that crossed the demarcation line that delineated Alliance territory.
Now there was a real problem. The Zrthn threat, always a looming presence, had grown more worrisome over the past six months. Instead of an occasional foray up to the demarcation line, followed by an immediate retreat, they had begun crossing deep inside Alliance space. Grant knew they were probing for weakness, testing the Alliance response to the incursions. So far, neither side had done anything more than posture, which was good. The last thing Grant or the Alliance wanted was another war, especially with an enemy that he knew so little about.
Grant’s musing about the Zrthns was cut short by a knock on the door.
C’mon in, Sha’n, he thought.
His office door opened at the unspoken permission and Sha’n entered. Although her official title was Assistant to the Commander, the Waa female was more of a trusted adviser than anything else. Standing an inch above four feet tall, the diminutive aide had the same green skin and large black eyes that were common to all Waa. Not for the first time, Grant smiled at the thought that the Waa were the little green men that were rumored to have made numerous visits to Earth in the mid- to late-1900s. Only they weren’t rumors, he knew. The Waa visited Earth regularly in the latter half of the twentieth century. What was really funny was that they looked remarkably like the cartoon- and movie-based characters that had become so popular after those visits began. Green skin. Large, bald heads. Enormous, almond-shaped black eyes. Even the flowing, light-colored robes they wore fit the ancient-human stereotype.
It had taken Grant nearly a year before he could identify Sha’n as an individual, distinct from the thousands of other Waa who resided in and beneath the city. Eventually, he came to recognize her from the tiny wrinkles covering her skin, the distinctive angle of her eyes, and the way she walked. Grant had once tried to describe his efforts at distinguishing a single Waa to an acquaintance on Earth. The best example he could come up with was to ask his friend to imagine a thousand oranges. At first, they all looked the same, but if you removed a single orange and examined it every day for a year, you might eventually be able to pick it out of a pile of oranges with some effort. You just had to make sure it was a small pile.
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