“Stop being so damn analytical, you prig,” Troy scowled as he chewed on his lower lip as he poured the boiling water. “And I don’t hate society. Whatever gave you that idea?”
His question was met a wan smile. “My apologies,” his brother replied, cocking his head in acknowledgement. “You just hate poor people.”
Troy barked a laugh, grinning mischievously as he played with his mug absently. “Of course I do, Mick. They can’t pay.” He sobered, frowning in thought. Just as well there were no cameras within range, the media would have a field day with a quote like that. “And what connections do you think I have?”
“You sit on the board of the Commonwealth Amnesty Association.”
“Oh, you learned about that, did you?” Troy asked, reaching into the fridge for the milk. That wasn’t much of a connection – after all, it didn’t take much to get on the board of the CAA. You just had to have a degree, and contribute a shit-tonne of money. “Well, don’t tell anyone about that. I have an image to maintain, a reputation to keep.”
“I’ll refrain from commenting on that last,” Michael said, his eyes twinkling in merriment as Troy glowered at him.
The CAA was the inter-solar conglomerate that had emerged from the ashes of the old Amnesty International. Over the years, it had been on the brink of being made irrelevant – human rights abuses had all but been eliminated in the Commonwealth more than a century before, after all, so there seemed to be no real need for a human-rights group in this day and age.
But, with the onset of the war – and all its resultant problems – the CAA had seen a resurgence in importance as it sought to tackle the overwhelming task of supplying, housing, and relocating refugees and other displaced people. Its membership had gone from just a few thousand in 2415 to more than twenty million today. And that number could rise still more.
“Well, I suppose I can make myself available to help you.” He cocked his head in the direction of Adlai’s bedroom. “I’ll get Adlai to stay with Jennifer.” Troy frowned as he handed Michael his mug. “When do we leave?”
“We leave for Elysium the day after tomorrow,” he said. “We’ve been assigned to the cruiser Eisenhower – James’ ship.”
Troy blanched. James. Not exactly Troy’s favourite topic of conversation lately… or his favourite family member. It wasn’t through a lack of trying, either. Every time both brother’s tried to bury the hatchet, something would be said, and the friction would just be made worse. Troy wasn’t even sure their relationship could even be repaired – both men had said some nasty things to each other over the last few years, things that could not be readily excused… or forgiven.
And the worst part is, I can’t even blame it all on James. A stab of guilt iced its way into Troy’s heart: loathe as he was to admit it, he’d been a Grade-A jerk to his twin unnecessarily… and now, the damage was done, and Troy didn’t know if it could be fixed… or even how to fix it.
“Uh, excuse me? Hello?”
Troy rolled his eyes. Evan/Ewan had woken up, and was calling from the bedroom – if Troy’s considerable experience was any indication, then he was most likely wanting to use the shower, and needed help to turn it on.
“You’re such a whore,” Michael said, trying to affect an air of shock, and failing miserably. It had been some time since Troy’s behaviour had managed to shock anyone. Except maybe James.
“Coming,” Troy said, ignoring Michael as he darted past. Michael just shook his head in silent mockery. “At least I’m getting some,” he said to his brother.
Michael glowered after him – he’d been served with divorce papers a month earlier, but had been living away from his family for nearly six months. “That stung.”
*
“There’s got to be some kind of mistake,” Celina Yuen said as she studied the orders etched on the datapad she’d just been given by Captain Elizabeth Allen, who had just arrived from the destroyer Taranto, which had arrived unexpectedly an hour earlier.
“Apparently not, Captain. I’ve been sent here to relieve you.”
It had taken a little more than a month, but at the start of February, she’d gotten her wish. Her new orders were spelled out in front of her: Captain Allen, along with two dozen other crew members on the Taranto, were to swap places with Yuen and selected members of her staff, as part of a delayed crew rotation. The Taranto – under the command of Captain Adam Sharon – would then transfer the recently-liberated ‘exiles’ to the currently under-repair destroyer Nagano, where Yuen was to assume command in six days.
“What did you do to draw the short end of the stick?”
“I have no idea,” Allen admitted, her mood dark and her tone bitter. Clearly, she was one of those who wore her resentment towards Yuen on her sleeve. “I assure you, I did not beg for this assignment.” She shrugged her broad shoulders casually, but it did nothing to make her seem friendlier or accommodating. “Apparently, someone made a big stink to the JAG to get you outta here.”
“Oh, really?” Yuen asked, playing the innocent card.
“Yeah.” Allen cocked a head towards the door, her contempt barely masked, though whether it was at being in her presence, or the ignominy of being assigned to a place that could only aspire to be classed as a backwater, Yuen wasn’t sure. “You wanna show me around this shit-hole?”
Frankly, Yuen didn’t care if he liked her or not. She nodded agreeably, her shock at her transfer fading away, replaced by excitement at the prospect of freedom. “Sure. This way.”
Chapter Two
Jayesh Khan hadn’t been on Titus IV very long – barely four months – but he’d been on the refugee planet long enough to know that there wasn’t a unit of time invented yet to measure just how long you had to wait in the queues to get fed. Access to water and bathrooms was far simpler, but food seemed to be the one essential that the Commonwealth couldn’t streamline any more than it already had.
The Titus IV Resettlement Camp – so-called because no one liked to use the term refugee – had been set up not long after the war had started in 2420, and had quickly filled up, eventually expanding at a rapid pace. It been at capacity since 2425, and no matter how much manpower and resources the Commonwealth threw at them, the woes facing the refugees increased at the same pace as the populations.
Everyone had a roof over their heads, but that was about all they had access to on a regular basis. Fresh water was provided to them via a pumping and filtering station located at the river a few kilometres away (that plateau was where the initial settlement had landed almost ten years earlier, and there was still a camp there to maintain the aqueduct), but the river could only provide so much water before it was depleted, so the rest of their hydration needs had to be shipped in from off-world, and then that water had to be distributed to the population – no small task, as there were thousands of people wanting water every minutes.
To add that problem, food was also an issue. Unlike the planet’s water supply, which was compatible with human biology, there was little flora or fauna on Titus IV that could be easily consumed by humans. The soil on the world was fertile, for the most part, but the climate tended to the cold side, so growing sufficient plants and crops to help feed the two-or-so million refugees was a tall order at the best of times. Like the water, distribution was also a major problem.
“They’re said to be opening four more mess tents tomorrow.”
Khan looked up to find Lindsey Petrillo approaching him, her short height belied by her long gait. He’d met the buxom brunette on his first day here; the sixteen year old young woman – as she was quick to remind everyone – had been here for almost three years. Much of her family were located in the northern encampment, but Lindsey had been moved here to the main camp.
For his part, Khan was fourteen, and, up until recently, had called Calder II, a garden world the size of Earth’s moon, home. His colony had resided on the coast of the largest continent, much of its climate resembling northern India (where Khan’s fami
ly descended from). The world had been intended to be a manufacturing hub when it was first settled in 2385 and, until its destruction, had been a key supplier to newer fledgling colonies along the Commonwealth frontier.
The N’xin had arrived, bombarding the colony from orbit. Elements of the Commonwealth Fourth Fleet had rallied to their defence, but by then, the damage had been done – no longer viable, the twenty thousand or so survivors had fled aboard whatever transport they could find, leaving over two million of their loved ones behind to burn in the smouldering ruins of the city.
“Oh, you mean we only have to wait a couple of hours to be fed?”
“Here’s hoping,” she said, smiling. “But I thought you were only having two meals a day?”
“Well, I’m hungry,” he said, holding up his bowl. To save wasting hours of his life – such as it was – waiting in line for slop, Jayesh had settled on having only two meals a day. This decision also meant that someone else in the colony would get fed, a fact not lost on Jayesh, who had been brought up to be as generous as possible. “Not that I’ll admit to being hungry for rations.”
“I also heard that a convoy is headed our way,” Lindsey said. Her father was a middling-bureaucrat in the cog of the colony’s administration, and Lindsey was always proffering tidbits of information to try and keep his spirits up. She did that with a lot of people, though, and if often got her – and her father – into trouble when her information didn’t exactly pan out.
“To pick up, or drop off?”
“Pick up.”
Khan sighed, deflating. News of people being taken off Titus IV would normally be considered good news – fewer people to feed meant shorter queues. But to get off of Titus IV you had to win the lottery system that was in place. The camp’s mainframe computer – probably the most efficient item in the whole place – would, when prompted, select random refugees to be taken away. A convoy like the one that was due arrived every few weeks (usually a week after a refugee convoy deposited more people), and normally carried away a few thousand people in their now-empty holds.
Word was, once the war with the N’xin was stabilised (or over, whichever came first), the convoys would be far more frequent. Of course, the word had been that the war would be over ‘soon’, though that word appeared to be very subjective to the person uttering it.
“You mean I could finally get away from this place?”
Lindsey smiled. “You and me both, but I doubt it... But my dad said that we won’t be getting any more people for the foreseeable future.”
“Really?” The question came from the person in front of Khan, a tall, seemingly middle-aged woman with olive skin and dark, intelligent eyes. “That’s a relief.” Her expression became a touch vacant. “I wonder when we can go home…”
If we can go home, Khan thought dourly. For many of the people here – some of whom had been here since the war had started – there was no home to go to. In some cases, not only did the N’xin bombard the colony into dust, they took drastic steps to sterilise the rest of the planet – the moon that was home to the New Berlin colony had been glassed, rendering the Mars-sized moon uninhabitable.
“Hopefully,” Lindsey offered hopefully.
The woman turned away to return back to her discussion with her friends.
“Probably should have kept that on the down low,” Jayesh said. “You know how rumours can get out of hand.”
“Hope is the biggest luxury we have,” Lindsey said shyly. “This whole camp is built on hope.”
The pair of them watched as a quartet of security guards drifted past, the three men and lone woman talking softly amongst themselves. Their combat gear – necessary to deter, or subdue, riots – was a clear standout amongst the more civilian attire that surrounded them, but was just as demure in colour.
It was hard to be resentful to the military presence on Titus IV. Despite the colony’s desperate conditions, the crews of the Guardian and the Matador had been a mixed blessing. On the one hand, they could be overzealous in their caretaker roles, acting like Stormtroopers in situations where a bit of delicacy would have gone a long way… on the other hand, if not for their presence, anarchy would have taken hold of the refugee camp years ago… to say nothing of their being a deterrent to N’xin raiding parties.
As it was, the Falcon-class frigates had an unexpected benefit – in addition to providing security, the two grounded ships provided a majority of the power for the camps.
“Besides,” Lindsey continued as the soldiers got out of earshot. “Even if we’re all disappointed, things couldn’t possibly get any worse, could they?”
Khan couldn’t argue with that. Things here were pretty desperate.
Still beats being dead, he thought… but it wasn’t as comforting as he would have liked.
*
The countryside of Titus IV was untamed, though since its largest form of indigenous animal life was a nocturnal marsupial the size of a possum – and a herbivore, at that – it didn’t pose much of a danger to the residents of the Resettlement camps; the flora, likewise, was mostly harmless, and the plants that were hazardous to human health were located far away from the human settlements.
Most dangers to human life on Titus came from the humans themselves. Resources were, at best, scarce, and with the camps as crowded as they were, the local computer networks had a rough time trying to support the virtual and digital entertainments most people craved, and so children were allowed – if not actively encouraged – to find amusement in the wilderness next to the camps.
Titus IV was gifted with lots of wide-open space, so there was no shortage of sports: cricket, rugby and soccer being the primary physical interests for anyone over the age of six or seven. Many liked to explore the wilderness surrounding the camps; older teens, however, were more than keen to couple up, find seclusion and do some exploring of their own.
Mackenzie Spencer wasn’t even a teen, and wasn’t interested exploring – either nature, or the human body. He did, however, like taking long walks along large tracts of land every day, listening to the extensive collection of music his virtual-array contained. It was an activity his mother encouraged, despite her reservations over his safety.
Mackenzie had been born on the colony of Calder II, just a few years before the world had suffered a devastating raid by the N’xin; his mother had managed to get the two of them off-world, but his father and two sisters had been left behind and had probably perished, along with about half of the planet’s population. After bouncing around spaceports on a couple of smaller colonies, they’d eventually made it to Titus IV, where they’d lived ever since in relative safety… if not comfort.
He was currently listening to the Rite of Spring, a raw, empowering classical piece from the 20th Century that was, to this day, still marvelled at, despite Mackenzie not really understanding some of the concepts it seemed to inspire. The high noon sun was playing its own game of hide-and-seek with wisps of cloud, and Mackenzie was following the river – more like a creek – along, away from Outpost Alpha. It was a still day, with barely a breeze, allowing even the slightest noise to cause raucous echoes into the distance.
He’d just reached the finale of The Dance of the Earth when he realized he was hearing something that wasn’t in the music. He looked around, unable to locate the humming, despite knowing – at the back of his mind – that he knew what the sound was.
Mackenzie looked to the sky, frowning. The sound he was hearing was an engine. Squinting against the harsh sunlight, he made another scan of the sky, this time using his virtual-vision to highlight anomalies.
He found one after just a few seconds – some sort of craft… and didn’t look like it came from the Commonwealth; his virtual-array couldn’t identify it, but that didn’t mean much – its database was very limited.
But the craft looked wrong, and so Mackenzie exercised the only option he had.
He ran.
*
“Entering standard orbit, Captain.
”
Captain Julian El-Badry gave a short nod as he rose from the command chair in the centre of the bridge, still silently mewling over these inspection tours. Although he understood the need for them, he disagreed that a ship like the Eisenhower – a just-commissioned Ithaca-class heavy cruiser – was needed to chaperone dignitaries behind the lines as they looked over the refugee camps and assessed their needs.
That sort of job can be done by a smaller vessel. The Commonwealth High Command disagreed, arguing that these VIPs required substantial protection that only a cruiser could provide, and thus, the Eisenhower was pressed into service as a glorified taxi.
“Take up a synchronous position with the main camp,” El-Badry ordered as he came to stand just behind the helm, a hand gliding gently over the back of the chair lazily.
“Still no response from Orbital Control,” Lieutenant Brady said from the Communications station, his body hunched over his control console. “Or Colony Administration.” He frowned. “Titus is emissions quiet.”
El-Badry looked to his First Officer. “They knew we were coming,” Commander Marino confirmed, his lanky frame leaning against the railing that divided the portside work area of the bridge with the command area.
“Scan the camp,” El-Badry ordered, returning to the command chair. He pointed to Lieutenant Brady. “Keep trying to reach them, and contact High Co-”
He was cut off by the warbling of the communications station. “We’re being hailed by the Matador.”
“On speakers.”
“Thank god you’re here,” a gravelly female voice, slightly accented, boomed from the speakers. “This is Captain Maes of the Matador. We’ve just been hit by a N’xin raiding party.”
A hush quickly overcame the bridge. “What’s your status?” El-Badry asked, nodding at the unspoken question Marino was looking at him with – his First Officer immediately put the ship on alert, the klaxon blaring into existence in the background as the Eisenhower surged with power.
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