by Trevor Wyatt
“The Admiral will see you now,” Flynn’s secretary said, looking at Jeryl over the rim of her glasses. She had her hair tied up in a bun, and despite her advanced age, she still managed to look stern enough to make Jeryl sit on his chair without slouching. If she hadn’t followed a career as a secretary, Jeryl was sure that the woman would make a perfect headmaster in some uptight school.
“Thank you, Rose,” he said as he got up, buttoning the jacket of his uniform. As he strolled inside Flynn’s office, the Admiral immediately got up from his seat behind the desk and walked around it.
“And here he is, the Armada’s own troublemaker,” Flynn greeted him, shaking his hand firmly. “How are you holdin’ up, Jeryl?”
“I’m doing just fine, Admiral,” Jeryl said, unable to stop a smile from creeping up on his face. “One week in New Sydney and I’m a new man.”
“Yeah. I should go back there myself. I’m just afraid I won’t want to come back here again, you know? Gotta deal with all the pencil-pushers, every single day.”
“I don’t envy you,” Jeryl laughed, sitting down as Flynn went back behind his desk. “I prefer to be out there, if I’m being honest. I’ve had my fair share of pencil-pushers back when I was playing at Vice-Admiral.”
“You, Vice-Admiral? That was just a title, Jeryl. You spent half your time blowing shit up, and don’t even try to deny it,” Flynn laughed, his voice filling the whole office. “You were born to raise hell.”
“Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t—but I sure as hell was born to get shit done.”
“That’s right, that’s right…but no medals this time, I’m afraid,” Flynn continued, his laughter from before vanishing as quickly as summer breeze. “Barely anyone knows of what happened in Galea, and that’s how things should continue.”
“Wasn’t expecting any medal. Nor wouldn’t I want one. As far as I’m concerned, Armada Intelligence can keep all their fucking medals.”
“No love lost for them, huh?”
“What do you think? The murder of more than two hundred thousand civilians barely merits a badge, wouldn’t you say?”
“You seem too happy for a man that just murdered an entire colony’s population, I gotta say,” Flynn said. Just like Jeryl predicted, Flynn didn’t have to know the details to figure out that Jeryl had pulled some kind of shady strategy to get out of an unwinnable situation. And, as far as The Seeker’s captain was concerned, there were no unwinnable situations—only situations you’d have to be more patient about. In the end, there was always a way out.
“What can I say, Admiral? I’m a happy man by nature.”
“No, you’re full of shit by nature, Jeryl,” Flynn laughed once more, this time even more heartily than before. “And you’re fine just like that. As far as I’m concerned, the Armada needs more men like you. And I’m not talking about having men like you serving as Captains, I’m talking about—”
“No, whatever it is, you can shelve it,” Jeryl cut Flynn short, waving him down. “I’m not looking to become Vice-Admiral again. Been there, done that.”
“Maybe not Vice-Admiral…but what about a position in Intelligence? God knows these soulless bastards need some fucking ethic in there.”
“They wouldn’t find it even if it bit them in the face. These guys play by no rules—legal, moral, or ethical. They play their own game, and they make up the rules. They respect nothing, and I don’t want to be a part of it.”
“You shouldn’t speak of them like that, you know? They have ears everywhere,” Flynn said, the expression on his face telling Jeryl that the old Admiral didn’t give a fuck if Intelligence officers were listening in to their conversation right now.
“I’ll try. I don’t want to be murdered in the middle of the night by some murderous operative.”
“They have a few of those, that much is true,” Flynn shrugged. “But it might be one of those murderous operatives that’ll solve this teleporter riddle.”
“How so?”
“Intelligence has been trying to develop teleporter tech with no success. They’re exploring…other alternatives.”
“Don’t tell me they’re planning on stealing it from the Tyreesians. No one would be crazy enough to attempt something like that.”
“You’re damn right,” Flynn laughed. “No One would do it.”
“Are you talking about—”
“Alright, alright. I’ve said enough,” Flynn cut Jeryl short, but that just served as confirmation. When Flynn said ‘no one’, what he really meant was ‘No One’—the Intelligence operative everyone simply dismissed as a legend. Beautiful, stronger than a small squad, and more capable than a whole battalion put together…and she only operated in the shadows.
Or so it was said. Jeryl didn’t even know if No One was in fact a she.
“Seriously now, Jeryl,” Flynn started again. “Reconsider. Your talents are being wasted as Captain of The Seeker. I know you love that ship as much as you love your wife, but I see bright things in your future.”
“Admiral, thank you for all the trust but…I don’t want bright things in my future,” Jeryl said, standing up from his chair and offering Flynn his hand. “The only things I want in my future are my ship, my wife…and my son.”
Flynn’s eyes widened in surprise, and Jeryl almost felt bad about the way he had said it. Flynn had never married, and he didn’t have any children to call his own.
“Congratulations then, Captain,” Flynn finally said, shaking Jeryl’s hand. “I wish you all the best. Truly.”
“Thank you, Admiral.”
With that, Jeryl started walking out of Flynn’s office. He stopped dead on his tracks as Flynn called after him.
“Jeryl.”
“Admiral?”
“If you care about your wife and your son…I’d think about choosing another career.”
“Sir?”
“I know men like you. I was just like you. And as long as you have a uniform…there’ll always be another war to wage.”
Jeryl simply stood on the doorway for a long moment, Flynn’s words echoing inside his head, and then he just nodded.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, and then finally left for good.
There’ll always be another war to wage, Flynn’s words continued to echo inside his head, and Jeryl knew it was the truth.
The worst part was he knew he’d never be able to give up his uniform. Sighing, he allowed one last thought to cross his mind.
If war comes…so be it.
I’ll be ready.
Homefront
Shadow Agent Chronicles Book 1
A Pax Aeterna Novel
Copyright © 2017 by Pax Aeterna Press
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work intended for adults only.
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No-One
The alleyway between the twin fifty-story buildings facing the lab provides cover for me. The three-lane road cutting the space between the twin towers and the lab stretches through the heart of the Industrial Estate, which is the commercial and political heart of Sonali Prime. As such, the road is heavily trafficked by cars, Sonali and a sprinkle of humans and other species.
On Sonali Prime, there are still primitive land-based vehicles, like rovers and bikes, which are used for short distances travels. These primitive vehicles are also used by the poor. Poverty is as much a problem on Sonali Prime as it is on Earth. You’d think a government that could send its people to the stars would extinguish poverty as it went into space. But no, that’s not the case here.
It’s late in the afternoon, and I’m standing closer to the structure on the left, my eyes kept peeled on the two-story building that houses the res
earch lab I’m going to be sharing with the xenoarchaeologist, Gresh.
For the past few days that I’ve been on Sonali Prime, establishing my presence and cover, I’ve been going over the information we have on Gresh. All it says is that he is a renowned xenoarchaeologist who publicly supports the Origin Movement, which is dubbed Anti-Ascension in some quarters. Today, I’m going to meet him for the first time and get a feel of who he really is and not just what his dossier says.
I find the Origin Movement to be a very fitting name. Aside from the fact that it’s a cool way to address Gresh and his fellow free-thinking Sonali friends, it also hints at the reason for the whole ruckus that engulfed Sonali Prime since the “Arrival of Terrans”, an issue for which I’ve been sent to the Sonali homeworld to spy on them.
I scoff in my hiding spot. I know I haven’t been exactly as efficient as I was during the war against the Sonali. Believe me; no one knows that better than I do. Nevertheless, I don’t see how sending me to this fucking boring mission is a good use of my skills. I should be at the front of the Galactic Council formation, collecting information concerning just how powerful Tyreesian Collectives’ matter transportation technology is, and not watching some scientists that don’t want to go through puberty.
I squint my eyes in mild disgust, before pushing the thought out of my mind. A good agent doesn’t let her emotions get in her way. I may not like my current babysitting mission, but I shouldn’t let that affect my opinion of Gresh. Otherwise, it would influence the way I speak to him, as well as my actions, and maybe—just maybe—even blow my cover.
I’ve decided to get the job done here on Sonali Prime. Gather all the information the Armada Intelligence Service could ever need. Prove to those bastards that I haven’t lost my edge. Then right before they want to make their way into their good favors again, I’ll stick it to them hard. I am not called No. 1 in Armada Intelligence for no reason.
I know I could’ve fought the assignment. I just didn’t. Not now. A good solider knows when to fight and when to bow down. The war is a long one. I don’t have to win every goddamn battle as long as the war is won. I am very patient…Oh, and I never forget. Never…
“Who goes there!” bursts a thick voice behind me.
I freeze for a moment, my mind running the possibilities. Who could be behind me? How did they sneak up on me? Is he an assassin? If he’s an assassin, why give away his position?
I slightly push away from the side of the building and inch towards the center of the alleyway, so the light from the road covers my form by flooding the Sonali’s eyes.
“Who are you and what are you doing hiding here?” the voice asks, getting closer by the second.
I hear the Sonali’s footsteps as he approaches.
I don’t respond. I’m wearing an atmospheric regulator on my face—even though I don’t really need it. The nanites coursing through my veins can help me breathe, along with a host of other things it can do. But no one knows I have them. And I really don’t see the need of letting the whole world (or worlds…) know, ergo an atmospheric regulator, which I use to hide my face.
Now, if I speak, the Sonali behind me, which I am assuming is security, will have a record of my voice which they can run through a voice analyzer. They may come up empty since I’ve not had my true voice recorded by the Sonali security department. They would have my voice recorded as a cop assailant with what I’m about to do to this Sonali. I can live with that—I wouldn’t be a great spy if I couldn’t. But it’ll be like living in a tent filled with flies. It’ll be a damn inconvenience.
Of course, I’ll choose ease over inconvenience, every time. But that’s not what you’ll see in the holovids. In the vids, the lady spy would turn and say a cool line, and then maybe the Sonali gets off a round, which she so conveniently dodges before pulling out her weapon and getting off a shot that drills a hole in the middle of the Sonali’s eye.
“Turn around!” yells the Sonali.
I turn around. I know the light will still hide my face, so why resist?
The Sonali, however, is visible for me to see. From his uniform, I confirm that he’s a security personnel. Probably patrol. I look through the Spartan alleyway all the way to the end, which is about the length of a block. I see a hovering security air car. I blink my right eye, mentally calling the scanning control of my nanites. The world turns a very bright orange hue in my right eye and a grid overcast upon it.
The Sonali before me appears as a deep red. There are also deep reds all over the place, signifying other life forms. But there’s none in the car. I blink my right eye again, canceling the scanning protocol.
The world is normal again.
The Sonali police officer is alone. I’m sure he was flying by when he spotted me leaning nefariously on the side of the building.
“You’re wearing a regulator,” he says. “So, you’re an alien.” Then with a twist in tone from confrontational to sheer hate. “You must be a Terran, for your stature. A female, I would guess.”
I notice he hasn’t pulled out his weapon yet. He doesn’t see me as a threat. I almost scoff at his colossal misjudgment.
“Are you here to bomb the towers?” he continues, taking a step towards me with each word. “Is that your mission?”
When he’s within range, I mentally call up my voice modifier.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I say in a transmogrified voice.
The slits on this Sonali widened impossibly, and I see raw fear pass through his eyes as I jab against his throat and have him grabbing his neck and gasping for air. I slam my booted foot into his right knee, hearing the bone crack and feeling the muscle tear.
The Sonali screams and collapses to the ground.
Still gasping for air, he grabs his communicator. “Officer under attack. Assailant is a suspected, female alien wearing an atmospheric regulator.”
I knock him out with a punch smack in the head.
I pull up to my full height.
“That ought to teach you not to mess with a girl,” I say in my transmogrified voice. “We Drupadi women are tough as old boots.”
I’m not a Drupadi, and neither am I disguised as a Drupadi. But the operators at the Sonali Security Ops Center who are still listening in through the cop’s active comm unit don’t know that. They’ll probably now be recording the “suspected female alien wearing an atmospheric regulator” as Drupadi
Soon, they’ll dispatch a retinue of cops to begin canvassing the area. I can’t have them searching for a Terran when I’m going to be in the opposite building from the crime scene.
It appears that attacking a cop in Sonali is a grave crime as it is on Earth or New Washington. I want them to narrow their search to the Drupadi, who number in the hundreds on Sonali Prime, especially the Capital Grid. That way, when they come into the lab on the other side of the road scanning, they’ll overlook a little ol’ Terran like me.
Better the Drupadi than the Terrans.
Oh, and I have nothing against the Drupadi. I’m just putting to practice what I learned in Evasive Techniques class back at the “non-existent” Terran spy academy.
I dust off my jumpsuit for no reason, other than the dramatic feeling I’m having. Then I walk across the road up to the two-story building. It looks really old and out of place in the whole futuristic line up along the road. For one, it’s the only building in the area that’s less than ten stories in the air. Also, it looks like it’s made out of very dark red brick and mortar. Up on the first floor are huge panes of glass that are blurred by what appears to be dust and dirt, like you’d find in an abandoned warehouse off in a remote colony.
There are small stone steps that lead up to an old-fashioned swinging door. I walk up to it and knock politely. I feel an urge to scan the building, but I don’t. I don’t know if I’m currently being scanned by the security operatives within the lab. I won’t be caught if I’m not actively using my nanites.
I knock again.
�
��Come in, please!” comes a very light and thin voice.
I grip the handle, pull it down, and push the door inwards. I walk into a musty hallway. Light from outside falls into the hallway, lighting up a path that reveals floating dust particles. The rug is brown and visibly sandy.
I look around, to the doors on the left and right, and conclude that this is an abandoned building. So much for security operatives.
“Up here!” comes the same childlike voice.
I wonder if he’s Gresh’s son or relative. But why would he be speaking with such assertiveness in his voice?
I close the door behind and make my way up the stairs on the right. I walk into a wide, open space with shelves upon shelves of books, artifacts of all forms and kinds on stands and tables that are well articulated. At the center is a cluster of equipment and about three workstations with computers. Workstations are arranged in a concentric pattern around the cluster of equipment.
A manly Sonali figure is standing over some archeological dig up on a table to the left side, near the panes of glass. He has a book in his hands, and he’s engrossed in what he’s reading by the dim lights from the panes.
I clear my throat as I approach him.
He looks up at me only when I’m within range. He blinks at me for a while as though he has no idea why I’m here. Then he smiles, revealing a perfect set of white teeth that are almost gorgeous.
“I’m Gresh,” he says, sticking out a right hand for a handshake. “You must be the xenoarchaeologist expert from New Washington?”
I take his hand and nod with a smile, which he can see through my transparent breather.
“I’m Rosaline,” I say, telling him my alias. “I’m excited to work with you.”
The Sonali only chuckles innocently.
I really am babysitting, aren’t I?
No-One