by C. R. Turner
Emerson smirks. “Taylor lives on a ranch out east with a gazillion animals.” His blasting voice causes Max to pull on his reins again.
Taylor laughs and punches Emerson on the shoulder hard, although his muscular body barely moves. “I do not … I run cattle when I’m not on duty.”
I return Taylor’s smile. Her weathered skin now makes sense. “How many head of cattle do you have?”
“Two hundred and thirty.”
As the team breaks up, I notice Bradley on the far side of the hangar greeting someone in an all-black striker force uniform. From what I can tell, he holds the rank of master regulator, which would make him the highest-ranking soldier in the Striker Division. Surprised Bradley would have a direct line to someone so high up in the Union, I turn away before he catches me staring.
At the end of the day, Sam and I are in the hangar lined up with our plates. The Union cooks have spread out a massive array of food, the likes of which I haven’t seen in years. After half-filling our plates with mashed potatoes and vegetables, we get a big steak each and head over to the tables where SF Raptor are sitting.
Taylor glances over as I size up my huge meal. “As much as I love running cattle, the best beef is grilled beef,” she says with a cheeky grin.
I grin and Sam laughs out loud, covering her mouth.
As we sit and eat, I remember my time on Marc’s farm during the wheat harvest – big tables, just like these, the aroma of delicious food in the air and a dozen men rendered silent as they ate.
After filling up on a delicious dinner, we’re all just sitting around chatting when I ask Bradley, “Was that a master regulator you were talking to earlier?”
“Yeah. That’s Master Regulator Warain, he’s the Striker Division leader. Each striker force prime reports directly to him.”
“Do striker scouts report directly to him as well?”
Bradley nods. “Yeah … that’s right.”
While the kitchen staff clear the tables, the hangar fills with conversation. It’s so strange having someone wait on you. I feel guilty for just sitting here and not helping. Some of the team walk off and come back a while later with wet hair and a change of clothes.
I ask Bradley, “Where do we sleep?”
“Here in the hangar. You’re part of the team. We all eat, sleep and train together. There are showers back there and towels. Anything you want, the Union’s got ten of,” Bradley says jokingly.
Hati is setting as Sam and I take Max for a walk. The spaceport looks like it’s going to be a hive of activity all night, with starships and trucks being loaded and unloaded, and Union jets and starships crisscrossing the sky. I gently nudge Sam with my shoulder. She smiles.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask, wrapping my arm around her waist.
“I just can’t get over how quickly things have changed. We woke up this morning on Arcadia.”
Just a fraction of Hati is still visible, the sky red as we walk along the enormous expanse of concrete. I grab Sam’s hand and hold it tight as we watch Max, who’s a couple of hundred feet ahead. Just as Hati dips below the horizon, Max stops and looks back at us. Sam and I stop dead in our tracks at the magnificent sight. His massive muscular frame stands tall. Head raised and ears pricked, he’s like a giant cast iron statue forming a striking jet-black silhouette against the blood red sunset. I just stand there overcome with reverence, the image sears into my mind as though by Hati itself.
Chapter 5
Bradley has feet apart, ready to attack, his all-black Union knife gripped in his fist. I clench my own knife hard and look for a way past his defences before he launches his attack on me. Several hundred miles east of Paelagus at a training facility, the ground here is dry and dusty. Sweat runs down my face and into my eyes, stinging as I attack Bradley with everything I have. We jostle for a second, then he thrusts his knife into my rib cage. Although they’re training knives and we’re wearing heavy rubber-lined training jackets, it’s still excruciatingly painful. I’m going to be black and blue by day’s end. The rest of SF Raptor and Sam are sparring in pairs. Sam actually looks like she’s having fun training with Pisano.
Bradley encourages me. “You’re nearly there … one more. Remember, think feet, then hands, and don’t forget to improvise.”
I nod, not having the energy to reply. Hell, it’s not even midday. I try to think back to how I managed to get one past the striker scout. Improvise. Okay, I’ve got this. As I get into position, I can feel the dozens of times Bradley has already stuck me in the ribs, back and legs. I heave forward and kick Bradley’s knee. He doesn’t lose his balance, but the random blow surprises him. He swings his knife at me, and I block it with my elbow. I know he’s not putting all his muscle into it. I spin around, swing my arm back toward him and finally make contact, my knife ramming him hard in the back.
“Yeah … that’s it. Finally. Well done, mate.”
“Are we done?” I ask with a half grin, half please-be-over expression.
“Yeah, that’ll do.”
Bradley slaps me hard on the back, right on a welt. Bloody hell, these guys are tough. With not a tree for miles, Max is sleeping in the shade of the Kyt. He stays there as Bradley and I walk back to the veranda of the only building in sight. Taylor hurls two cold drinks at us with considerable speed. I catch mine and hold it up to my forehead.
“Thanks, Stocky,” Bradley says.
Bradley and Taylor’s camaraderie and light-hearted natures give me a sense of ease.
Bradley scans the area and asks Taylor, “Where’s Dropa?”
“He’s asleep inside. He gave up after I kicked his arse half-a-dozen times.”
Sam and Pisano join us in the shade after their sparring session. Sam’s as beat up as me, her shoulders slouched and beads of sweat across her brow.
“How did you go?” I ask.
Sam winces. “Alright … I think.”
“She did better than alright,” Pisano replies. “She got four contacts.”
We all laugh. I shouldn’t be surprised by Sam’s achievement, but against these guys, that’s outstanding.
We watch Emerson and Hawkins spar – neither wearing training jackets. Emerson has just his singlet on, and his ripped body is covered in welts and long scratch marks where the dull edge of the training knife has run across the skin. Hawkins is a giant and as scary as hell holding his knife, poised to attack. I’m glad I wasn’t paired with him. Emerson and Hawkins go at it in the heat as if they’re both trying to kill each other, moving from a stand-off to complete chaos in the flash of an eye. After each launches several failed attacks, Hawkins gets the upper-hand and runs his knife across the back of Emerson’s neck. Mental note – never get on the bad side of Hawkins.
After several hours of Ashra training we’re finally packing up. It’s good to know how to use the firearms, but they remind me of the worst day of my life. I’d be happy if I never saw one again. Sam grabs one end of a large box filled with training gear and helps me carry it back to the Kyt. Max is still lying in the shade, and as we approach, he lifts his head, jumps up and follows us up the ramp.
As Sam and I strap down the box of gear, Bradley says, “There’s one more thing I wanted to give you some training on.” He reads a device strapped to his wrist, then turns to Hawkins. “Hawk, unpack your remote.”
“Pos, sir,” Hawkins replies.
Sam and I frown. “Pos?” I ask.
Hawkins answers. “Short for positive.”
Bradley inserts two tiny earpieces, flicks a couple of switches in the cockpit, then unpacks some sort of high-tech electronic device. He exits with it, while Hawkins unpacks what’s little more than a bright-yellow steel box on wheels. Using a small monitor on his remote control, he drives it outside.
Sam puzzles. “What’s that for?”
Hawkins winks and gives us a lopsided smile. “I build them for the Union in my spare time. Target practice.”
We join the rest of the team on the ground, e
ager to see what all the fuss is about. Using a small monitor on his remote control, Hawkins drives the vehicle far off into the desolate landscape.
“Here, you can have the honours,” Bradley says, handing me his device. I’m surprised by its weight. It’s roughly the size of a shoe box, dark green, covered in scratches and has TPU on the side in black lettering. I look at Bradley dumbfounded.
“Press this button and hold it down,” Bradley says.
The device springs to life with a whirling sound, as if something inside is spinning at tremendous speed.
“What is it?” I ask, still baffled.
“It’s called a G-ray Tag.”
After a few minutes of intense instructions, my head is full. I’m sure to forget most of what Bradley’s just said. I aim the device at Hawkins’ vehicle, which is about a thousand feet away now, and fire the device for five seconds, just like Bradley instructed, but other than a few clicking sounds, nothing appears to have happened.
“That’s it?” I ask.
“That’s it,” Bradley replies.
As Hawkins continues to drive the vehicle further away, Bradley presses the screen on his wrist device. “Bradley, FS Archer, contact?”
Bradley pauses, presumably waiting for a response. Who is he talking to? “RCV target on GTF one one zero point nine.” Bradley glances down at his wrist device again. “TPU assets A1 and A2, two miles west of target. Confirm?”
Bradley’s completely foreign military terminology makes me feel as though I’ve been dropped in the deep end and I’m struggling to keep my head above water. I’m realising our short training stint before the mission is just the bare essentials and that these guys are extremely well trained.
“Final,” Bradley says, before pressing the screen on his wrist device again.
Bradley slaps Hawkins on the shoulder to get his attention, then points to the horizon. A Union single seater strike jet is screaming along no more than five hundred feet off the ground. I wouldn’t have even seen it coming if Bradley hadn’t pointed it out. As the jet closes in, it drops a bomb. The bomb steers through the air as it flies toward its target. There’s a bright flash as the vehicle explodes in a cloud of dust and dirt. I’m hit by the jet’s sonic boom, then a fraction of a second later, the blast wave. I knew it was coming, but I still nearly jump out of my skin as the jet pulls up and lifts skyward. I’m trying not to smile but seeing a huge smoking crater where the vehicle was is just too funny. As we head back to the Kyt, the rest of the team are grinning and laughing except Sam, who has horror drawn across her face. My smile rapidly evaporates when I think about the times I’ve seen Union jets drop bombs on the TPRA, and I understand that Bradley might expect me to use the G-ray Tag on live targets one day. I hope I never have to use that thing again. This isn’t why I signed up. I wonder if my father would be ashamed of me.
There’s the smell of grilled meat wafting through the hangar when we return at the end of the day. Several packages of Union clothing wrapped in clear plastic and a pair of black boots sit on my bed. Some of the shirts and pants are black, while others are brown and dark-green camouflage. My jaw drops and my heart sinks.
I pick up one of the packages, a black shirt with “Stinson” written on the shoulders. I can’t believe this. “Do they expect us to wear the uniform?”
“I guess so,” Sam replies.
I drop the shirt on my bed and shake my head. “How can I wear the uniform after everything that’s happened? What am I even doing here?”
Sam sucks in a lungful of air. “You shouldn’t think of it like that. Everything’s changed now …”
Bradley approaches before I have a chance to process what lies before me. “Stinson, Miller.” Bradley stares at me with a slight frown. “Are you alright?”
I nod, trying hard not to give away any emotions.
Bradley hands us some papers. “Here are your contracts. They basically cover you from now till the end of the mission. This doesn’t mean you’re enlisted; it just means you’re contracted to the Union for the specified period. At the end of the mission, I’ll fill in report cards on both of you, and if you wish, you’ll have the opportunity to enlist.”
“What equals a pass for the report cards?” Sam asks.
I glare at her, more confused about this whole thing than ever.
Bradley answers. “They’re just a formality for the most part. You’d have to do something pretty stupid to be rejected. You need to sign your contracts tonight.”
I nod and look down at the uniform sitting on my bed.
Max has been fed and we’re all sitting down to dinner. Dropa and Emerson are arguing about something, but I have little interest. My body is killing me. I have large red welts and bruises everywhere. Sam is sitting next to me and Taylor across from us. Taylor smiles and I throw her one back, hoping she’ll leave me alone; I don’t want to lie or disrespect her if she asks why I’m upset. The hangar doors are open, and the spaceport is busy as usual. What sounds like two Union jets overhead drown out everyone’s conversation – their roars feel like they’re cutting into my soul. Sam rubs my leg. I glance over and raise the corner of my mouth.
“How are you doing, Stinson?” Taylor asks.
“Okay.” Truth be told, I don’t know what I’m doing here; all I want to do is walk away.
After dinner, the team set about cleaning their weapons and chatting, while the air cools to chilly. Max wanders over, drops himself right in front of Sam and me and stares at us.
“Are you okay?” Sam asks.
I think for a second before replying. “I don’t know … I just don’t know if we’re doing the right thing anymore. This doesn’t feel right.”
“Because of the uniform?” Sam asks. “Or the close combat and weapons training?”
Angry at myself for putting us in this position, I reply, “Both.”
Sam frowns and narrows her eyes. “Wearing the uniform for a few weeks would be a small price to pay if it meant putting the men who killed your parents away for life, wouldn’t it?”
She’s usually right.
“Prime Bradley’s probably just trying to train us up so that when we’re off-world, he doesn’t have to babysit us as much,” Sam says. “You shouldn’t lose sight of why they’ve asked you here.”
“I never want to have to kill someone.”
Sam’s nose wrinkles as her jaw drops. “You won’t.”
A minute passes before I ask, “Do you want to take Max for a walk?”
When Max hears the word “walk”, he leaps to his feet. Sam and I chuckle. Max always seems to be able to make me smile, even when I’m really down.
The team are all up early, busy with preparations for the day, and I’m sitting on my bed when Sam walks out in her all-black striker force uniform. I notice most of the team watching her. Sam’s face is glowing as she walks toward me using the goofy stride she sometimes does, her ponytail swaying from side to side. I can’t escape returning her beautiful smile.
She stands in front of me. “Your turn.”
I pick up my uniform, my smile waning. “Just for a few weeks.”
When I return, the team are at one of the tables digging into breakfast. I grab a plate, fill it with bread, roast meat and eggs, then join them. Sam has a tiny smile on her face as she rubs my leg. I can’t believe I’m wearing a Union uniform.
After breakfast, I’m folding my clothes away, when Bradley walks over. “Stinson, are you ready?” he asks, all chipper – a noticeable break from his usual commanding self.
“For what?” I ask, a little afraid of what the answer’s going to be.
“You’re going to one of the Union hospitals for the next ten days to do your BFAC and some paramedic training.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Okay … awesome! What’s BFAC …?”
“The Battlefield First Aid Certificate. Grab your gear. You fly out in twenty minutes.”
“What are Sam and Max going to do?” I ask, getting nervous that we’re being
separated.
“Miller’s going to one of the SESS facilities with Pisano to do a crash course for the next ten days. I’ll take care of Max while you’re gone,” Bradley says, as he slaps me on the shoulder.
Sam’s wearing the goofiest grin I’ve ever seen.
I gather my things and give her a hug. “I love you.”
Sam doesn’t let go. “I love you, too.”
When she finally lets go, she wipes a tear away.
I grab her hand and swing it side to side. “We’ll only be apart a short while.”
“I know. I’ll see you when you get back.”
After flying inland for several hours, with nothing but desert below for the past hour, Teenan drops us out of the crystal-clear sky. We head toward a huge military base with dozens of buildings linked by footpaths and lush green gardens, which are striking against the desolate surrounds.
I turn to Bradley as we touch down. “What is this place?”
“It’s the Union’s main hospital, rehabilitation and research facility.”
As we walk along the tarmac, the weather reminds me of Bessomi where I grew up – fairly hot but a dry heat. The facility is impressive in size, and many of the buildings are quite beautiful, although it appears they haven’t escaped the dissension on Terra Primus. Quite a few windows are broken, and one hangar is filled with Union four-wheel drives missing wheels, doors, bonnets or even engines – obviously picked over for parts.
As we reach one of the buildings, Teenan opens the door for us and I give him an appreciative smile. Entering the unstaffed reception, I’m caught off guard by the air-conditioning. I can’t even remember the last time I’ve felt this cool, clinical feeling against my skin. If it weren’t for the lights and the air-conditioning, you could be forgiven for thinking the place had been abandoned. With no one around to point us in the right direction, Bradley reads a board hanging on the wall.
“Don’t you know where we’re going?” I ask.
“Not really,” Bradley says. “I’ve been to this facility before but not to this building.”