The Arcadia Legacy (MOSAR Book 2)

by C. R. Turner

  I sit on Max’s back for a few more minutes, taking in the scenery, hoping this isn’t the last time.

  “Come on, Max. We’ve got a job to do.”

  Back at the cabin, Sam is in the garden. She follows us around to the front, and after I unsaddle Max, we sit in the chairs on the veranda. I can’t escape feeling riddled with guilt for abandoning Sam. I open my mouth, but the words won’t come out. I take a breath, force myself to say it.

  “I’m going.”

  I sigh in relief as Sam smiles. “You’ll do good.”

  “You’re not mad?”

  Sam wrinkles her brow. “No … why would I be?”

  “I don’t know … I was worried you’d think that I’m abandoning you.”

  Sam shakes her head. “No … as much as I don’t want us to be apart, I think you need to do this. They need to pay for what they did.”

  Chapter 4

  The following day, I pace the veranda, Max saddled, gear packed, a million questions going through my mind. Could this be our last goodbye? Am I making a huge mistake? I can’t escape the horrid feeling I’m abandoning Sam. She grabs hold of me and hugs tight.

  The sporadic chopping sound of the Makri aircraft in the distance breaks the silence. I take a deep breath – there’s no turning back now. The craft descends through the clouds and touches down in the field. Sam gives Max a hug while he’s still lying, then grabs my backpack. As the rotors spool down, we head down to greet Teenan, Prime Bradley and a third soldier we’ve not met before.

  Bradley looks at me, then Sam, face expressionless as we all shake hands. “Joel, Sam.” I thought he’d be a little excited. Teenan on the other hand, bows his head slightly and greets us with a customary smile.

  Bradley then gestures with an open palm to the third soldier. “This is SESS Specialist Pisano.”

  Bradley’s speech is clear and direct. I guess he’s used to addressing soldiers with zero ambiguity. Pisano is tall and thin with thick bushy eyebrows behind plain silver glasses, which gives him the appearance of a schoolteacher. I never would have imagined him being part of a striker force team, but I know better than most not to judge.

  Pisano greats us, then asks Sam, “Bradley tells me you’re studying up on starship electronics and software systems?”

  Sam’s head jolts backwards. “Yeah.”

  “Which class of starship?” Pisano asks.

  Sam hesitates before replying. “I have a copy of the SESS ops manual for first-generation Bridgeport starships.”

  “What section are you up to?” Pisano’s bushy eyebrows edge closer together.

  “I’ve read the whole thing. I’m re-reading it at the moment.”

  The corner of Pisano’s mouth twitches higher. “What part did you find the hardest?”

  Sam and I share a frown. “Ah … Lintal code, bridge computer and Bridgeport solution processor communications and priorities. It’s kind of hard to grasp without a computer. I wrote some of the code out by hand, to try to understand it, but I can’t test any of it.”

  “Could you understand the BSP’s calculations?”

  “I think I have a basic understanding of the methodology, but I couldn’t do the calculations,” Sam replies.

  Pisano’s smile grows as he gives Bradley a barely visible nod. Sam is seldom puzzled by anything, but I can tell that she is also wondering what they have in mind.

  Bradley focuses on Sam. “We’re always on the lookout for new recruits, how would you like to join us?”

  Sam’s eyes light up. “What? On the mission?”

  Bradley nods. “Yeah.”

  Sam’s face lights with a beautiful smile.

  Bradley adds, “The mission can give you some firsthand field experience.”

  “Yeah, I’d love to,” Sam replies, now beaming with excitement.

  “We’ll wait while you get your gear,” Bradley says.

  Sam grins at me before running back to the cabin. I catch myself shaking my head. I can’t believe how much things have changed. It wasn’t that long ago the Union police drafted people by brute force. I know Sam will now be put in more danger than if she stayed here by herself, but at least we’ll be together now.

  “Does the Union let people who are in a relationship serve together?” I ask.

  Bradley answers. “As long as they don’t have any children together.”

  Bradley holds out his hand to Max, who lowers his head and sniffs the open palm. Bradley pats Max as he looks him up and down. Now surrounded by men in uniform, I wait nervously for Sam’s return. Bradley reads my face, then pulls a small electronic device out of his top pocket. He presses the screen a few times, then hands it to me.

  “They’re my two Canine Desertines,” Bradley says. “I rescued them after a severe draught on Stratamus when they were pups.”

  The photo – Bradley dressed in casual clothes, laughing as two lanky canines crawl all over and lick him – makes me smile. I’ve never seen a live Canine Desertine, only pictures. From the same planet Max was born on, the two golden-haired canines, while nearly fully grown, probably only weigh ninety pounds each. I hand the device back and wonder if he’s being genuine or trying to manipulate me. As he puts the device away, Bradley smiles – the first time I’ve seen a single emotion on his face.

  While we wait for Sam, I think about running back to the cabin for one last look, so that I can burn the image into my mind. A short while later, Sam hurries down with her backpack, bow and arrows slung over her shoulder.

  Sam returns Bradley’s stare. “What? I can take care of myself.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Bradley replies. “I like your style. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  As we head towards the aircraft, Teenan says, “Thank you for joining us.”

  Teenan is so polite and personable that I want to say you’re welcome, but I refrain, and instead, simply return his smile. I still can’t believe Sam’s coming. The dread and guilt of abandoning Sam is now replaced with excitement and worry, but then I remind myself, it’s Sam. She doesn’t need me to watch her back. Sam was hunting big game when I was still eating rabbits caught in snares.

  When we reach the aircraft, I lead Max up the ramp, then glance back at the cabin to steal one last look. It’s the first time Sam or I have been in any sort of aircraft, and I’m completely beside myself with excitement, trying to take it all in. It’s such an amazing machine, I find myself grinning.

  Teenan flicks a large switch on the wall. “It’s called a Kyt.”

  The ramp slowly rises with a loud whirring sound, then locks into place with several hefty mechanical clunks. The main fuselage interior is big enough to fit several vehicles. The walls are quite scratched up, and the same light grey as the craft’s exterior. There are lots of bright yellow tie-down points and numerous bright red handles with black writing on them. I widen my eyes when I read one that says: “Pull after water landing”. Teenan heads up to the front of the Kyt with Pisano, while Bradley helps us secure our gear. We take our seats, rows of which run down each side of the fuselage, and strap ourselves in. I manage to get Max to lie in front of me.

  After a short while, I can hear the faint humming of the rotors spooling up. Bradley takes his seat across from Sam and I, looking very relaxed, almost bored. It’s fairly quiet inside, and I’m surprised when the Kyt suddenly lifts off. Max spreads his front legs and claws at the floor with his nails as he lifts his head and pricks his ears. Sam’s smile and curiosity vanish as she grabs the edge of her seat, her focus gravitating to the floor.

  The craft has no windows in the sides, so I look past Teenan and Pisano, who are surrounded by huge banks of computer screens and controls, and gaze through the forward windscreens. As we continue our ascent, our speed builds, the clouds fly by at great speed, and soon we’re over the ocean.

  As the Kyt levels out, Sam lets go of her seat and starts looking around again.

  “Are you ok?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” She doesn’
t sound convincing, though.

  Max has his ears pricked as though hypnotised by the view. The Kyt pitches up again, and after climbing for a few minutes, we approach the mainland and the abandoned naval base. I wonder what Lindsey’s doing right now – tinkering with the patrol boat no doubt. The Seration Mountain Range fills the windscreens. I’m in awe at the tremendous sight. From the air, I finally comprehend just how massive it actually is. The baron rocky mountain tops look like something from another planet, a dead planet. I can’t believe Max and I crossed them. Although the Kyt has gained high altitude, Teenan keeps vigilance as he navigates through even higher craggy peaks.

  As Sam and I watch the scenery, I wonder what her reaction will be when the industrial area comes into sight. After a short while, we clear the mountain range and Sam sits straight backed, looking optimistically for her father’s office building. Teenan pitches the Kyt down, and it’s not long until Paelagus comes into view. What took Max and me many weeks and nearly killed us, has taken the Kyt less than an hour.

  The city is bustling with starships taking off and landing, and huge cranes dot the skyline. I’m surprised by the size of the spaceport when it comes into view. There’s a vast expanse of concrete, probably a thousand acres, covered in black and white markings as well as lights mounted flush with the ground.

  Now just a few hundred feet off the ground, we approach the edge of the spaceport where a line of trucks wait to be loaded. A giant starship up ahead is taking off. It’s an absolutely colossal machine. By the big grin on Sam’s face, she’s never seen one up close either. The Talon starships are old workhorses to say the least, mostly grey with huge black “TPU” lettering on the side, which signifies the Terra Primus Union. As we touch down, I keep watching the starship, in awe of how something so massive can take off so fast and with seemingly so little effort.

  We step off the ramp, Bradley leading the way, and I catch myself grinning. Flying is so much fun, I can’t wait to do it again.

  There are people everywhere, thousands of Makri in their grey and white uniforms, many carrying strange energy weapons. I’m as glad to see the end of the war as anyone else, but with the huge show of force from another planet, I hope we didn’t just trade one authoritarian rule for another. A thousand or so feet away, a Talon starship has an enormous ramp extended out the port side with around a hundred Union soldiers disembarking, carrying heaps of gear and weapons, no doubt returning from the war. Sam stops dead in her tracks as she surveys the soldiers. By her strained face, I know she’s wondering if her father is among them. I walk over and take her hand. When our eyes meet, a tear runs down her cheek.

  “Joel” is all that escapes her lips.

  There must be thousands, if not tens of thousands, of soldiers returning home now the war is over. The chances her father is in that small group must be slim.

  Not knowing what to say, I give her a short while, then nudge her. “Come on.”

  Bradley stops and turns back. “Not much of a return.”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  Bradley adds, “There have been ships returning for the past six months … they’re supposed to be filled with thousands of soldiers, but instead they return with just a few hundred.”

  As we reach a hangar filled with Union striker force soldiers and four-wheel drives, I ask, “Prime Bradley, why aren’t there any Union police around?”

  Bradley turns, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t we tell you?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “The Union police force has been disbanded. The Terra Primus government has ordered the Union Special Investigation Division to put all ex-Union police officers under investigation. We’re cleaning house.”

  Sam’s face reflects my own surprise. The winds of change can surely move fast.

  “Prime Bradley, what do you think of the Union police?” I ask.

  “Just Bradley, mate. I don’t rate them very highly. They were typically soldiers who’d been kicked out of the forces, or people who failed the entry requirements. A lot of them were cowards who hid behind their helmets.”

  Bloody hell. I never expected a striker force prime’s opinion about the Union police to be so similar to mine. I wonder what other assumptions I’ve made about the Union are wrong.

  Throughout the hangar, weapons and all kinds of high-tech devices cover tables and shelves, and I’m overcome with a feeling of being way in over my head. To my left, dozens of foldout beds sit in neat rows. A figure on the far side of the hangar catches my attention.

  “Is that a striker scout?” I ask Bradley.

  He looks over at the uniformed man, then back at me, reads my face. “Yeah … you know not all striker scouts are murderers?”

  “Yeah …” I reply sheepishly. I’ve only ever seen the one. Deep down, I always knew that not everyone who served in the Union would be bad. My father, after all, wore the uniform at one point in his life, but since my past interactions with the Union police and the striker scout who tracked me have all been bad, I now struggle to trust anyone in uniform. It’s something I know I’m going to have to work on. Bradley marches off as though every daily task is a mission and comes back a short while later with the rest of his team.

  Bradley takes off his long-sleeved jacket, revealing his ripped veiny forearms covered in tattoos. Although we’re from completely different backgrounds, Bradley’s my kind of guy: polite, disciplined, no nonsense – a real straight shooter. I can imagine us being good friends, if I can just see past the uniform.

  His team lines up. Sam is beside me, and I have Max’s reins in my hand, his head over my shoulder.

  Bradley introduces us. “This is Striker Force Raptor.”

  Bradley gestures to one of the men. “Chordus Emerson, the team’s second in command. Emerson is a specialist in starship structures.”

  Emerson is bulging with muscles and has a shaved head. He steps forward and shakes my hand with a death grip. “How’s it goin’?” he asks, voice so loud it carries throughout the hangar.

  “This is Engineering Specialist Hawkins.”

  Hawkins has got to be close to seven feet tall with the build of a true athlete. In his late twenties to early thirties, he’s the youngest of the team. There’s a large tattoo on his neck – an upside-down compass – and his hair is a short razorback. He’s striking. I try hard not to stare.

  “Hey,” he says, voice deep and calm.

  Bradley moves along the line. “And this is Navigation and Communications Specialist Taylor.”

  I’m surprised when Taylor greets Sam and I with a respectful “Mam, Sir”. Her chiselled jawline and ripped arms obscure her age, but I’m guessing by the weathered skin above her Union singlet, she’d be in her early forties.

  “You’ve met SESS Specialist Pisano.”

  “This is Weapons Specialist Dropathaly. We call him Dropa.”

  Dropa greets us with a simple “A”. He looks like a weightlifter, short and solid.

  “So you’re Stinson? The one who evaded a scout?” Taylor asks.

  What the hell? How many people know about that? Embarrassed by the reputation, I reply quietly, “Yeah … this is Max.”

  Taylor looks up at Max with a smile. “It’s good to have a MOSAR attachment for this mission. Good to have you on board, Stinson.”

  As the team wanders off, breaking into separate conversations, I ask Bradley, “Why are there so many specialists on the team?”

  “Each striker force team develops its own unique collective specialty. The Striker Division used to be just that – tactical forces – but over the years, it’s evolved to be much more. Some teams are still strictly tactical forces, but most have evolved into specialty teams; some specialise in civic engineering, some in infiltration and espionage, while others are highly technical. SF Raptors’ collective specialty covers engineering, weapons, navigation and communications. We catch a lot of asset recovery, protection and demolition missions. The area we’re a little weak in is search and rescue,
which is where you and Max come in.”

  “What’s your specialty?” I ask.

  “Ordinance Specialist. Computer-guided ordinance and tactical smart missiles.”

  “Are MOSAR paramedics considered soldiers?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Excluding the defunct Union police, everyone in the Union is considered a soldier and would be expected to fight if need be.”

  Emerson and Hawkins walk over, and Emerson holds his hand out to Max. Emerson’s forearms are bigger than my biceps. Max lowers his head and sniffs at the hand. Emerson lets out a bellowing chuckle, and Max reefs his head back, flattening his ears.

  “Gee, he’s skittish.” Emerson’s voice is so loud, Max startles again, backing up and pulling on his reins.

  Taylor shoves Emerson out of the way. “You’re too loud, Foghorn. You’re scaring him.”

  “Come on,” whispers Taylor as she holds her hand out.

  Max steps in and lowers his head. Taylor pats him on the forehead a while, then gives him a gentle hug with a big grin. Max seems to like all the attention. I’m distracted by Sam chatting with Pisano about starship electronics, but then my attention gravitates toward Bradley who’s now walking around Max, running a hand over him. I panic, pulling on the reins to draw Max close by my side – Bradley’s a little too interested. He’d better be a man of his word, and leave us free to return to Arcadia after the mission.

  “So where are you from, Stinson?” Taylor asks.

  I crack a tiny grin. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to someone calling me by my family name. “Bessomi.”

  “Ah … that’s TPRA country,” Taylor says. “I thought I heard someone say you’re from Arcadia?”

  “Yeah, I grew up in Bessomi, but we live on Arcadia now.” I don’t like it when people automatically associate Bessomi with the Terra Primus Republic Army. Bessomi’s a beautiful sundrenched land filled with farms and a rich culture dating back a millennia. I suppose they stereotype Bessomi as much as I do the uniform. It’ll probably take years for people to trust one another again. I only hope the Union and the TPRA can resolve their differences now.