He looked up and found Gemma’s gaze had fixed on him and her soft smile had returned. “That’s really selfless, don’t find that much anymore,” as she spoke she flicked ass into the bubbling flames. “It’s usually everyone for themselves.
He felt his skin flush and felt nervy, he had never taken praise well. “Well what about you, what you do, being a nurse I mean is pretty selfless isn’t it?” he asked, attempting to shift the conversation.
She glanced at the dancing blaze for a moment and drew in another lungful of smoke, “I don’t know about selfless.” She blew out a thin mist, “My family were pretty wealthy, with the right name, on a core world.”
Simon interjected, “I thought so. I knew you were well-spoken.”
Her lips curled slightly, “Yeah, I was pretty posh, my dad wanted me to be the perfect daughter, stay home, study, become a doctor, marry the right man and continue the family name.” She took a final draw on the cigarette and threw it into the fire. “But I saw a smuggled documentary about the war during my second year at med school, I could see all the suffering, things I had only heard in whispers.” Her expression dropped and he could literally see the colour drain from her cheeks, “It was horrible, but as soon as I had seen it I knew that this is where I had to be, so I dropped out of school and signed up as a nurse. And here we are.” She threw up her hands.
“Wow!” it was Simon’s turn to exclaim this time. “How did your family take it?”
Gemma shifted agitatedly, “Let’s just say that we don’t speak anymore.”
“I’m sorry.”
Gemma sighed, “Don’t it’s such a tiny thing when you look around at all this sorrow.”
“Maybe, but I’m still sorry, all you wanted to do was try and help people, there can’t be anything greater to do with your life.”
“That wasn’t how my father saw it, he saw it as bringing shame and disgrace to the family, and to his name.” She drew another cigarette from the pack and lit it, once she had taken the first drag, she brought her hands down and began to pick off the chunks of dried blood. “I haven’t spoken to any of them in nearly a year and a half.”
“Well I’m sure that one day, you will.” He attempted to sound convincing.
She smiled and mist escaped in tendrils from the corner of her mouth. “I don’t think so, those sort of things aren’t usually forgiven.” She shifted her gaze back to the glare of the fire and then seemed to snap herself back. “Well I better get back,” She threw the cigarette into the effulgence and stood up, bringing both her hands to the bottom of her back and stretching out gracefully.
“Yeah I better see about that brother of mine, see if he’s causing any trouble like usual,” Simon grinned.
Gemma ran her fingers through her matted hair as if suddenly aware of how she must look. “It was nice talking to you Simon.”
“It was nice talking to you too Gemma, it was nice to have a conversation that to some extent wasn’t about all this.” As he finished he swung his hands out. “Sometimes I think that it can take over everything and you can start to lose yourself, in the machinery of war.”
Gemma glanced back towards the tent sheepishly and wiped her hands together. “It’s nice sometimes, to just get away from it isn’t it,” a nervous smirk, “even if it’s just for a few minutes, I think we all need some time away from all the blood and carnage. It can help to make things a bit more palatable.”
“Yeah,” Simon retorted as his mouth suddenly felt like sandpaper and his tongue felt three times too big for it. He could feel his face blush, while sweat beaded at the base of his spine, and he wrestled to control his nerves.
Gemma glanced down and then said, “Well I better go, I’ll keep an eye on that soldier and try and make sure that he’s comfortable, you never know I might be able to get him up to the medical frigate.” She paused and then her voice dropped, “however I wouldn’t get your hopes up about that.”
“Yeah I won’t, I just hope he doesn’t suffer anymore, maybe that’s all any of us can ask for.” His reply more sombre than he had intended.
She flashed her smile at him again, “Yeah, maybe that’s right.” She half turned and prepared to go back into the tent, “Well take care of yourself sergeant.”
“Wait,” Simon uttered as he stepped forward, “Could I maybe see you again later, we could talk some more or something?” as he spoke he shuffled nervously, like someone waiting for exam results.
Gemma shifted her gaze to him and her face beamed, “I’d like that.”
“You have the most amazing smile,” Simon exclaimed, almost automatically, before his brain could apply the brakes. Wishing he could wind back the clock, he felt his face begin to burn, “sorry that was about the cheesiest thing I have ever said.” He managed to splutter.
Gemma laughed gently, “It was a little bit, but I like it, sometimes there’s nothing wrong with a little bit of cheese, as long as it’s not too much.”
Simon began to ease back, never taking his eyes from her, “Ok well, I’m definitely going to go now, before I say something that might make you change your mind.”
“Ok,” She answered.
“I’ll see you later then, Gemma.”
“I look forward to it Simon.” Gemma said, as she marched back into the makeshift clinic, turning back for the briefest moments and offering one final grin, then was gone.
Simon turned away and sniggered like a cheeky schoolboy. When he had taken a few steps, he realized that he had forgotten his weapon and had to run back and retrieve it. He could still feel his heart pounding and nerves shot across his stomach. Yet he felt more alive than, he had done in a long time, maybe since he had left the farm for the final time. His father, the half-filled bottle still clutched in broken hands, shouting abuse after him, he had never been able to cope, after his mother’s passing, the old man had simply crawled into the bottle and hadn’t been able to clamber back out. He didn’t think less of him for that, his body had been strong, yet the soul it turned out had been constructed on frail foundations, and in the end it hadn’t been able to bear the weight of the heartache.
He pushed such recollections from his mind and allowed himself a sly grin. Perhaps things were starting to look up for him, now all he had to do was find his brother and then manage to stay alive until tonight. Which was sometimes, harder than it sounded, especially here on the frontline of this murderous conflict.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tom slumped outside the medical tent and glanced down at his bloody hands. He pulled his tarnished gloves off and threw them away. He had fought to save as many of his troopers as he could and yet still over half his squad had been killed outright, and most of the rest were injured. He had hoped at least they might be able to get up to the medical frigate, yet he had been told that wasn’t going to happen, so they would have to try and make do on the surface, with only the most basic medical care.
He yanked the canteen from his webbing and activated the cooling mechanism. Almost instantly the water inside was chilled and he unscrewed the lid and took a long gulp of the ice-cold liquid. He poured some over his face and tried in vain to clean away some of the detritus and human flesh that had misted over his features.
“Last stand is that you?” A voice drew his attention, he shifted his gaze and through the haze of moisture he saw a figure emerge.
“Yeah,” he spluttered as he rubbed the sleeve of his jacket over his eyes and when the veil had shifted he saw Captain Rachel “Trailblazer” Hooper, from one of the engineering divisions. He studied her briefly, light bronze skin was wrapped around a waiflike, yet still feminine frame and a delicate face, with piercing green and caramel eyes that seemed to sparkle. “Hey there Trailblazer,” he sighed.
“You look like shit,” She retorted and slid down next to him.
As she did so her scent filled his nostrils and made him think of flowers on a summer day. “Yeah well it’s a lovely fucking war after all.” He said as he took another mouthful of water
, and then offered it to Rachel.
She took the canteen, “I hope at least we have some liquor in here,” she chided as she drank deeply.
“Yeah I wish,” He coughed as he turned his gaze to the horizon and the trench line, once again the whirling of the incoming shells filled his mind as did the screams.
“What happened?” Rachel asked softly.
Tom was silent for a moment, his hand went to his body armour and underneath it he could feel the chain against bare skin. Once again he was back within the shattered church, outsides the Separatists were massing for another assault, ordinance pummelled the building and the force caused him to buckle to the ground. Bricks, concrete slabs and glass rained down all around him, and a veil of dust shrouded his vision.
“Tom,” the voice drags him back to reality.
“Yeah,” he sighs, “Sorry,” he shifted and once again looked upon Rachel, she had taken off her helmet and running her gloved hands through her matted platinum blonde hair. “Just a shit day that’s all.”
“We’ve all been there,” she countered her own eyes heavy now as she handed the water bottle back.
“Yeah,” he arched back towards the battlefield. “I lost almost all of my men today, in an artillery strike.”
“Shit,” she said and her hand drifted to his shoulder. “I’m sorry Tom.”
For an instance he was hushed, then when he did speak, his tone had dropped, “But I’m still here and without a scratch on me again.”
“Yeah, you are.”
“And I don’t know why.”
“Just be thankful, that’s all any of us can be to live for another day.”
Tom pivoted and stared into her eyes and was lost for a moment, “Yeah but why me, why do I keep living when so many other are being cut down.”
Her lips creased into a kind smile, “I don’t think you should spend too much time thinking about it.”
“Maybe your right,” he sighed.
Rachel’s gloved hand drifted down and took his tenderly, “Just be thankful you’re still alive.”
He shifted and stared at her. Almost instinctively he leaned forwards, just as he was about to kiss her, the radio squawked.
“Trailblazer, command needs to see you,”
“Roger than,” she replied, as he edged back.
“You better get going,” he whispered.
“Yeah,” she gripped his hand, “I will see you later.”
“Sounds good,” he said, as he observed her stand.
“Take care of yourself Tom.”
“You too Rachel.” With that, she drifted away and once again he was alone.
He fixed the distant skyline, soon night would be falling. Once more he is back within the shattered ruins, the perpetual thump of artillery, along with the screams of the injured and dying. Perhaps if he’s honest, he never really left it, not all of him at least.
CHAPTER NINE
THE SOLEIS SYSTEM, SEPARATIST CONTROLLED SPACE, 860 MILLION LIGHT YEARS FROM SOL.
The master hungered.
Its clawed talon’s ripped through the young girl’s chests feverishly, like a wild hunter might devour the carcass of its most recent kill. It was seeking out the energy that resided within her soul, her very life force, already it could feel the warmth, radiating from the child. A raft of emotions and desires, flashed within its haunted mind. Most were the usual, hunger, fury, a base primal desire, yet something else whispered to it, something that it had not felt for centuries. A single flash of empathy, the briefest sliver of light in his dark soul.
The master forced its mind to centre and let out an inhuman scream, it reached deeper into the girl’s broken frame and took hold of her still beating heart. It tore forth the organ from the buckled ribcage and felt the warm, sanguine fluid, flow over its scaled flesh. The master hoisted the lump of flesh into the air and observed it beat, for one final time. Then slowly, it felt the familiar sensation, as the child’s soul began to ebb through its arm and into its form.
It howled this time, as the ancient energy, dissipated through its colossal frame and for the briefest of moments its appetite was quashed. For just an instance it found peace and once again the shard of light appeared.
His name had been Michael, he had been a farmer, a simple man and he had been happy. He could see his family now, as long forgotten synapses sparked back to life, but their names were lost to him, after so many years. He had led the first food riots, the first step in what would culminate in the revolt against the Empire’s all-consuming taxes’, which were in essence killing all those he knew. He was being forced to take the food from his children’s mouths, in order to pay tribute to some government that was millions of light years away, and did nothing for them.
It was then the cravings returned, like a freight train bulldozing through its consciousness, everything was replaced by the yearning, the endless need to feed. The master bellowed again, this one visceral and dripping with wraith. It hurled the girl’s heart across the room and then picked up the bloodied remains of her body and dragged it from the ornately carved stone altar. It hauled the wet mass, of skin and bone, across to the pyre of bodies, some of whom still squirmed and twitched. The master felt nothing as it looked at the expanse of corpses, it threw the child’s body to join them unceremoniously.
Its murky, dead eyes, shifted and fixed upon the girl’s face, set in a mask of grotesque pain and anguish. The whisper came again, quietened this time, yet still very much present. The master sought out this voice, within, yet found nothing. Whatever it was it had become used to hiding and once again all that it felt was the never ending hunger.
It glanced once again at the mountain of meat and spat angrily. None of these pitiful humans could satisfy its desires, for more than a few moments, he had found some particular bright spirits long ago, when his transformation was in its most early stages, which allowed the hunger to be mollified for days and even weeks. Yet that had been long ago and the master had mutated a great deal since then.
It pivoted its massive torso and stared out through the streaked viewing window at the vast fleet it had gathered. Ten mighty heavy battle cruisers, twenty-five cruisers, forty destroyers and countless support vessels. All their hulls jutted with immense angular pillars and spires, painted black and daubed with runes and scriptures of dark power that glowed even in the frozen locker of space, a fiery red. The alterations made the ships look like living animals to the master, like some kind of mass of ancient and forgotten leviathans, released from some prehistoric sea, and transposed to the Cimmerian darkness of the cosmos. Past the fleet he could see the three planets that made up this system. Long ago each had been teaming with life, mighty factories had disgorged immense war machines and weapon systems. It is where the original Separatists had settled and started up their own worlds, free from the yoke of tyranny of the realm they had fled.
This mattered little to the Master now, the universe had moved on, as had the Separatists. It glanced towards the flotilla and reached out with its spirit. It could feel the presence of over nine hundred thousand of its finest troops, the vanguard of its forces. It was almost all the soldiers it could muster and soon they would be unleashed to bring about the final storm that not only would destroy the Empire he despised so greatly, but would rip apart humanity itself, and remove it once and for all from this plane of existence. The Master only waited now, for the signal from the scarified man, which would begin the final onslaught.
It could sense the unrest and chaos even from here, the drug-induced blood lust upon some of the ships had become too much for even its powers. Tens of thousands of its most potent psychics, had died just to contain its legion here and now the master alone was the only thing keeping them from turning upon themselves in an orgy of violence and slaughter. Although this control only took a tiny portion of its energy it still angered him, it had so much to prepare for and even the smallest distraction at this point could be the difference between success and failure. It could not a
llow that to happen for over a thousand years it had waged this war and now for the first time the end was actually within its grasp. The Empire would finally fall, they would answer for all that they had done.
Again the voice returned and this time the master could not quiet it. Michael stood again, outside his ranch, plumes of acrid, black and grey smoke rose from the remains of the farmhouse. He could taste the caustic haze and he felt tears well in his eyes. He pushed on knowing he had to find his family, fear twisted and wrenched at his soul. He fought through the all-consuming mist, he was screaming something, the names of those he loved perhaps, yet that, like so much else, was lost to him now on the wisps of time. He pressed on driven by emotions, which it had long abandoned, love, compassion, hope.
Then he was standing in front of the shell of the home, he had built with his own hands, the thick timbers still crackled as the last of the flames continued to burn, while other had simply been turned to ash. Then he see then, three figures, hoisted on large crosses. He screams and rushes towards them, he tries to bring them down with his bare hands, but the wood is too thick. He rushes to find tools, thoughts crash within his mind, yet his desires are fixed on a simple goal.
Now it is sometime later, the bodies of his family, lie before him, scorched, beaten, cut, and degraded. He has lost everything that he has ever cared about, everything that mattered to him and everything that he had been fighting for. Now the feelings come again and these are ones that he has held onto, rage, hatred, fury, wrath and vengeance.
The master reclaims control and shrieks, it stumbles back to the pile and claws through the detritus of human remains, until it found a body that still squirmed. It pulled forth the ancient, shrivelled frame. The old man stared at him, eyes glazed with fear. The Master didn’t pause, it simply tore the head from the skeletal frame and felt the warm splash as blood sprayed over it. Then came the warm flow of the soul and the longing and voice were silenced. The Master tossed the wrinkled mass, back upon the mound and returned to the translucent screen.
The Last Foxhole (The Forgotten War Saga Book 1) Page 9