A lesser woman might have cut her losses and moved away to start a new life somewhere else, but Bromley was Elisa’s home as much as it was Morgan Baird’s and she wasn’t about to give it up on the whim of a vindictive old man. She stayed.
Nine months later Bruno Tully was born into the world. Elisa did her very best to raise him in the right way but Bruno inevitably became a product of his environment. He was ten years old when he truly grasped the meaning of the word ‘bastard’. It was explained to him by the fifteen year old son of one of the retainers of the big house on the hill. It was followed by a beating – the first of many to come.
As time passed, the physical and verbal abuse became more or less a way of life, but Bruno had his mother’s strength and pride. By his sixteenth birthday he had ceased to fear the beatings or the people that delivered them. He’d learned how to duck and dodge and if that didn’t work – and it often didn’t – he’d learned how to take a blow, how to roll with the punches and how to stay on his feet. He was no longer a pushover.
Things finally came to a head late one afternoon as Bruno was walking along the path between the gymnasium and the science block. Two students, both older and larger than he, stepped out to block his path, the larger of the two planting his hand in the centre of Bruno’s chest. Bruno stopped but held his ground, staring defiantly back.
As usual, a small crowd gathered to watch, some of them looking on uneasily. Most of these confrontations ended as quickly as they began – a few blows just to let Bruno know who was boss and that was it. But during the past few months there had been a perceptible rise in intensity and with it a definite increase in malevolence. The crowd sensed that something different was about to happen.
And so it was. The boy called Bruno’s mother a whore.
For several moments Bruno just stared back, almost dumbfounded. Being called a bastard was one thing; apart from the fact that it was a matter of record, he’d reached the point where – in a perverse sort of way – he almost regarded it as badge of honour.
But having someone call his mother a whore was another matter altogether. Bruno was old enough to know what a whore was, and what a whore did. His mother was none of those things.
A line had been crossed. Not some vague, indistinct boundary but a great, thick, black line drawn indelibly across Bruno’s consciousness. And now there would be no turning back.
The older boy shoved Bruno firmly in the chest. Bruno took half a step back and the other boy advanced to shove him again, arm extended. With barely a thought, Bruno grabbed the wrist in both hands, raised the arm above his head and then rotated viciously through a complete circle. The boy screamed as tendons snapped and the arm was torn from the socket with a sickening, cracking noise. At once he collapsed to the pavement, clutching his shoulder in anguish.
His accomplice advanced but was stopped dead by a hurricane of blows as Bruno flew at him. There was no finesse to the attack – none at all, just an insane flurry of arms and legs. Half the blows missed the target but enough connected to make Bruno’s adversary curl up in a protective ball on the floor.
The fight only ended when Bruno was dragged off his victim by two of the teaching staff, one suffering a black eye and the other a badly cut lip in the process.
It earned Bruno a two week suspension but few crossed him after that, and during years that followed, the few that tried soon learned that once Bruno went into attack mode he was completely relentless. And the most frightening thing was that he fought like an automaton, entirely without anger or remorse.
Eventually he graduated high school and began to dabble with liquor, gambling, and all the other things that young men are wont to experiment with. After a few brushes with the law and a dressing down from Elisa, perhaps the only person he was still tentatively afraid of, he decided to funnel his talents into the one institution that might appreciate them – the military.
He signed on for eighteen years and, much to the relief of the local population, left Bromley for Camp Stafford, located half way around the planet. Before he departed he let it be known that if anyone disrespected his mother in his absence, he absolutely would be back and there absolutely would be a reckoning.
Military life suited him. It gave him a newfound sense of purpose and under the guidance of his superiors he strove to become both model soldier and fearsome warrior. No longer did he charge into the fray with frenzied violence. He learned control and self discipline. He learned when to fight and when to retire, and if conflict became inevitable, how to channel his energies into a measured, cost effective assault. He became the quintessential war-fighter.
And that would have been the end of the story, but fate had one last trick in store for Bruno Tully.
Morgan Jr. never quite forgot Elisa, and in his twilight years would even describe her as the one true love of his life. But needs must, and a few years after moving to Earth, Morgan Jr. bore children of his own. Bart, the eldest, was a dreamer, a gentle soul with a love of art and music. Russell, the younger, was of a very different disposition. Morgan Jr. made an increasing number of allowances for his behaviour until he finally came to the conclusion that Russell took after his grandfather and was, as such, just plain mean.
Russell Baird knew exactly where his future lay. His fool of a brother lacked the will and the nous to look after the family holdings. He, Russell, would take up that mantle. But first, he would celebrate his manhood by engaging in that most manly of pastimes. He joined the military on a five year commission.
And so it came to pass that one fine, spring morning, Corporal Bruno Tully was urging his band of recruits along the assault course at Camp Stafford. The course was long and arduous, culminating in the passage through a pool of freezing cold water. Already exhausted, each recruit was required to hold his head underwater for thirty seconds before he was allowed to exit the pool. Failure to do so would mean repeating the whole exercise the next day, and nobody wanted that.
Lieutenant Russell Baird waited patiently at the side of the pool as the platoon of recruits clambered over a series of obstacles before approaching at the double. The corporal leading the group had no idea who he was, but Russell knew all about the bastard of Bromley. Grandfather Morgan had made sure of that.
Corporal Tully tapped the first recruit on the shoulder. He immediately jumped into the freezing water and traversed the pool, finally ducking his head under the surface until Bruno blew his whistle and the man hauled himself out.
“Good man,” said Bruno slapping the recruit on the back.
The rest of the platoon followed one by one, each man bracing himself for the shock of the cold water and then battling across to the other side of the pool. Finally, they took a few gulps of air before dropping beneath the surface for the prescribed time.
All save one. The final recruit was exhausted even before reaching the pool. He stumbled as he dropped into the water, his arms and legs flailing as he struggled to the surface. With a huge effort he made it to the other side but with his strength deserting him, it was all he could do to hold onto the side of the pool with both hands.
“Come on, soldier,” said Bruno. “Dig deep!”
The recruit looked up at Bruno and shook his head.
“You’ve got this far,” said Bruno. “One last effort and we can all go home.”
The young soldier steeled himself and then dropped down into the water.
“Good man,” said Bruno, but no sooner did the words leave his lips than the recruit shot to the surface, gasping and spluttering.
“Corporal,” said Lt. Baird.
“Yes, sir!”
“Shove the recruit’s head underwater and hold it there.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me, Corporal. Put that recruit’s head under the water. Do it now!”
Bruno looked at the Lieutenant for a moment and was surprised to see that the man was in deadly earnest. He glanced down at the recruit who just stared back with a blank expression on his face. Th
e rest of the platoon looked on in silence.
“Corporal… we don’t have all day.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. Then Bruno looked the recruit in the eye and gave him a last few words of encouragement.
“Take a few deep breaths, soldier. We go on ‘three’. I’ll look after you, I promise.”
The recruit nodded and began to inhale deeply.
“One, two… three!”
With Bruno’s hand on his shoulder, the recruit disappeared under the surface. After fifteen seconds Bruno sensed him beginning to struggle. A moment later panic set in.
“Beg pardon, sir, I believe the recruit is in distress, sir.”
“Hold him there,” said Baird.
“But sir, the–”
“I said hold him there, Corporal. That’s an order!”
Still holding firmly onto the recruit’s shoulder, Bruno felt his charge cease his struggles and gradually become limp. Enough is enough, thought Bruno. He pulled the recruit from the pool and laid him on the ground.
“It’s all right, soldier. I’ve got you.” he said.
“It is NOT alright,” said Baird. “Corporal, put than recruit back in the water now!”
“With respect, the recruit is in distress. Sir!”
“Damn your eyes, Corporal. You WILL put that recruit back in the water or as God is my witness I’ll send you straight back to the gutters of Bromley and the whore that whelped you.”
At the court martial, Bruno’s defence council urged him to claim that the Lieutenant’s abuse of his mother had pushed him to the edge and caused him to snap. To a man, the twenty five members of Bruno’s platoon were quite prepared to testify as such.
Bruno refused. The truth was that he hadn’t snapped and moreover, he wasn’t prepared to lie about it either. After digesting the lieutenant’s comments, he had speedily considered his options, the possible courses of action and the likely consequences. He then proceeded to beat the lieutenant to a pulp.
It took but a few moments. All bluster with little substance, the lieutenant hadn’t even offered up a defence – not that it would have mattered, anyway. With lightning speed, Bruno slammed a knee into the officer’s groin. As Baird doubled up and his head descended, Bruno grabbed hold of his jug-like ears and crashed another knee into his face, catapulting the head back the way it came, a great gout of blood and a couple of teeth flying off in different directions. Baird somehow managed to remain upright but was swaying like a wheat sheaf in the wind. Sizing up the target, Bruno drew back an arm but before he could throw the punch, Baird toppled backwards onto the path. Bruno promptly jumped on his chest and pummelled him with half a dozen left-right combinations before flipping him over and grinding his face into the gravel path. He stood, gave the lieutenant a good kick in the midriff and nodded in satisfaction. Then he straightened his uniform and marched straight to the Provost’s office where he handed himself in.
The court martial found Bruno guilty on seven different counts. The two that really mattered were ‘Striking a superior officer’ and ‘Grievous bodily harm’. Together, they cost him a dishonourable discharge and a five year sentence in a military correctional facility.
By the time he was released, a cosmetic surgeon had repaired the worst of the damage to Russell Baird’s face and old age had claimed Morgan Sr. On the death of his father, Morgan Jr. sold the big house on the hill and transferred the entire family business to Earth.
The only idea in Bruno’s head was to return home and make a fresh start. It was not to be.
Bruno arrived back in Bromley to find that Morgan Sr. wasn’t the only one that had died during his incarceration. The usually hale and hearty Elisa had suffered a massive stroke and died suddenly at home in her bed; it was several weeks before someone found her. The local registrar had sent word to Bruno’s unit but for some reason, the news had failed to reach him.
Bruno descended into a pit of despair. Elisa and the military were the only reliable guiding influences he had ever known. Deprived of both, he promptly went off the rails, a litany of misdemeanours following.
Public intoxication was his stock in trade, with public affray very often the result. Common assault generally followed on from there. A regular visitor to the local law courts, the magistrate finally gave notice that the next time Bruno appeared before him he’d be facing serious jail time. Bruno took the hint and left Bromley forever, never to be seen or heard of again.
He spent the next few years drifting from system to system, finally settling on Charnak 3, where public intoxication, public affray and common assault were the rule rather than the exception.
Still sitting in his favourite seat in the corner of the Last Spike, Bruno was about to fill in the last column on his betting slip. Just as his pen touched the paper, another shadow fell across his table. Bruno laid down the pen and let out a sigh.
“You’re in my light,” he growled.
Ready for another exhibition, the old hands at the bar watched in expectation. There might well be a Round 2 after all.
“Really, Corporal,” said the tall stranger with silver-grey hair. “If you are going to let yourself slide, at least you could do so in a meaningful direction. Perhaps I could offer you the opportunity.”
The occupants of the Last Spike were surprised to see Tully gaze up at the stranger, study the face for a few seconds and then stand to attention, his back ramrod straight.
“I tend to have that effect on people,” said Commodore Jacks nonchalantly. “Well, come along, Corporal. Don’t dawdle. Things to do, places to see.”
The occupants of the Last Spike were even more surprised to see Bruno knock back the last of his whisky, smack the glass down on the table and follow obediently behind the stranger as he left the bar.
Twenty four hours later, the Reaper broke orbit from Charnak 3 with its new crew of three. By this time, Corporal Tully – as he had now been officially re-christened – had become almost unrecognisable from the unkempt drunkard last seen brawling in the Last Spike. Washed, shaved and sporting a military style haircut, he was dressed in a clean set of flight overalls, all courtesy of Commodore Jacks.
The change was quite remarkable, and didn’t stop with his appearance. For one thing, he was sober, a state he was not accustomed to, and as he sat at the tactical console the most surprising thing was that he had not the slightest urge to reach for a whisky bottle. Instead, he was completely focussed on the task at hand – a simulated encounter with a pair of hostile attack fighters. It was an entirely new challenge. In his Marine Corps days he’d been used to operating a similar console on board an assault landing craft but this time the mission objectives were completely different. It would take some getting used to, but that’s what the simulations were for, and Bruno had deliberately chosen the most difficult one in the database.
As fast and nimble as the Reaper was, she was still a freighter and no match for two attack craft. He hit the reset button for the tenth time as one of the fighters locked on his tail and sent a barrage of proton darts crashing into his engines. He didn’t expect to get the better of his adversaries but each time he was lasting a little longer and in the previous engagement had even managed to put one of his enemies out of the fight with a few well placed plasma rounds.
As his eyes surveyed the various switches and dials he felt a growing sense of purpose and more significantly, a sense of belonging, an awareness that had been missing from his life for the better part of a decade. Once again he was among people of his own kind – a comrade in arms.
By now, Bruno was quite aware that Jacks was no longer a commodore in the eyes of the establishment, but as far as that same establishment was concerned, Bruno longer counted as much of anything. He was now part of a new order and if Jacks was prepared to address him as Corporal, he was more than willing to return the favour and address him as Commodore.
Once the Reaper had left the Charnak system and safely made the jump into super-space, Jacks addressed his crew.
&
nbsp; “Well, gentlemen, here we are serving together once again. We’ll all have fine memories of Camp Stafford but I’m sure you’ll all agree that we now have a fine vessel with which to commence our new enterprise.”
“With respect, sir,” said Bruno. “I’m not sure that my memories of Camp Stafford are as fond as yours.”
“Nonsense, Corporal,” said Jacks. “The fact is, you did the corps an immense service by incapacitating that fool of a lieutenant. He was exactly the kind of officer the corps can do without – the sort that can get a lot of good men killed.”
“And don’t tell us you didn’t enjoy the experience. I would have done, even if it had cost me a few years in the slammer,” joked Fletcher.
Jacks joined in the laughter. So did Bruno, but the laugh was forced. Baird had crossed a line and deserved everything he got, but the truth was that delivering a beating gave Bruno no more pleasure than receiving one. It never had. Why on earth would it?
“Between us, gentlemen,” continued Jacks, “I believe we have the necessary skill set to make our enterprise a very profitable one indeed. It is my intention to relocate to the fringe worlds and set ourselves up as independent operators.”
Fletcher nodded. Independent operators. That loosely translated to piracy and smuggling with the occasional mercenary contract thrown in for good measure. They should do well.
“However, first things first,” said Jacks. “We need to take on some supplies. Is the Praeton facility still operational, Mr. Fletcher?”
“Yes, sir. We should be able to pick up everything we need.”
“Good. We’ll make that the first item on the agenda. And then, if you’ll permit me, there are a few outstanding matters I’d like to attend to before we embark on our new careers.”
“Sir?” enquired Fletcher.
“A few debts which I would like to settle. Namely, Admiral Alexander Giles, Judge Haveloy-Basham… and Sub-Captain Charles Poulson.”
The Blunt End of Oblivion (The Blunt End Series, Book 2) Page 8