by K S Augustin
WAR GAMES
What can you do when you start falling in love with the woman you’re meant to kill?
Laisen Carros is a covert agent of the Fusion, sent undercover to infiltrate the Perlim Empire. However, the years she’s spent as Cheloi Sie fighting Menon rebels on an alien battleground are starting to exhaust her.
To Lith Yinalña, Cheloi Sie is nothing but a war criminal and she considers it her personal mission to kill her.
Unfortunately for Laisen/Cheloi, the Empire and an idealistic assassin aren’t the only things she needs to worry about. A treacherous subordinate—the ambitious Koul Grakal-Ski—is looking for any chance to grab control of the territory. When Laisen and Lith start falling in love, it’s only a matter of time before Koul notices. And acts.
War Games
by
K. S. Augustin
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
About the Author
Other Available Titles
First chapter of Quinten’s Story
First chapter of The Check Your Luck Agency
Copyright Information
Prologue
Day 1,017 of the War:
It was a striking uniform and she looked good in it.
Koul kept his eyes staring determinedly to the front but couldn’t contain the occasional glances to his right, where she stood. Damn her for who she was! And damn her for how she looked! Command had been within his grasp—he could taste it, smell it—then it had been snatched away in a breathless flash.
There was only the usual chatter around them. Commands and counter-commands of the battalion leaders; shouted orders muted to something more bearable, almost soothing in their syncopated rhythm; occasional static as a device’s emissions interfered with the transmission fields; clicks as orders were relayed and communications intercepted. It sounded like a busy place of commerce, except for the signs of raging battle in the distance. Rising clouds that weren’t sand, vibrations that weren’t geological events….
He liked it near the front because he considered himself a good soldier. He liked the energy and the danger. The battle itself was occurring far away, almost at the curve of the horizon, but he knew that there were weapons that could easily reach him and the Colonel at their mobile post, if only the enemy knew they were there. He had proposed the reckless position aboveground as a dare, watching her for a reaction he could use against her. At the suggestion, her adjutant, a young grim-faced man called Swonnessy, betrayed startled suspicion in his brown eyes, but the Colonel had been impassive, carved from ice.
“Arrange it,” she told him in her low dark voice. And he had.
Poor Menon fools, he thought, his attention swerving once more to the horizon. Didn’t they realise what pitting themselves against the Empire meant? No mercy would be shown because all of them, Perlim and Menon, were ultimately irrelevant. It was what the planet represented that was key and what Menon IV represented was a stone on which to sharpen the relentless superiority of the Perlim Empire, a clear and unequivocal example to set for the rest of the systems. And beyond.
He thought of history and strategy but his thinking eventually led him back to the present and to the newly-decorated Senior Colonel standing next to him. The gold scar-raptors on her shoulders were gleaming and pristine, still fresh out of their velvet box.
There must be some way he could dispossess her, he thought. Some weakness he could exploit. But so far, the first twenty days of her command had been an example of fierce restraint and cold efficiency. He wanted to believe that he could do better, that her appointment was a political reward rather than a meritocratic one, but could find no cracks in her façade yet.
Weakness. The word haunted him. He had to find her weakness.
A captain from the Advance Penetrators moved up swiftly, executing a smart salute before launching into his request.
“Colonel,” he said, “we’ve captured the village of Sab-Iqur. It contains civilians. What should we do?”
Koul’s eyebrows rose. This should be interesting. Sab-Iqur was one of a necklace of towns in rebel-held territory. That they were sympathisers was obvious. But what would the Colonel do about the fact that the town contained civilians?
She turned, catching Koul’s look with one of her own. “Colonel, your analysis?”
“It’s a known rebel outpost,” he replied smartly. “We’ve had it under surveillance for four months and have intercepted some interesting conversations.”
Her lips tightened a fraction. “Such as?”
Koul shifted. “They’ve been known to act as a temporary weapons dump and makeshift medical facility for rebel forces.”
“Temporary weapons dumps? Not permanent?”
He should have known. Her female sensibilities were kicking in, looking for an excuse to spare the town’s inhabitants. Maybe here was something he could finally use.
“That’s correct,” he answered.
She turned to the captain. “How many people are in Sab-Iqur?”
“Six thousand,” he replied.
“About six hundred are known rebel fighters,” Koul added. “And two thousand, maybe more, are active sympathisers.”
He was composing the memorandum as he spoke, creating sentences and moving paragraphs around in his head, watching her smooth brow furrow in thought.
Dear Minister, it is with regret that I send this message to you. Sadly, in a recent offensive—during which our forces were victorious—Colonel Sie exhibited a profound error in judgement. Confronted by the town of Sab-Iqur, a known nest of rebel activity, she not only refused to clear the town of all enemies but—
“Eliminate them all.”
“I beg your pardon, Colonel?” Even the young captain looked shocked.
“There are almost four thousand innocents in that town, Colonel,” Koul said. “Do you mean to kill them too?”
A small smile curved her full lips as she watched him. “More than anyone else, I thought you would understand my order, sub-Colonel.”
Yes, he understood it. He would have given the same order himself. But he hadn’t expected it of her. Once more the bitch had managed to upend his plans.
“You heard the Colonel,” he snapped, twisting to face the captain. “Establish a perimeter, lock it down, then carry out your orders.”
“What w-weapons should we use?” the captain stammered.
Two pairs of eyes focused on the Colonel, reading the implacability in her dark, almond-shaped eyes.
“Use whatever you wish,” she rasped. “Just get the job done. Quickly. I expect the report by sunset.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
The young officer didn’t so much leave, as flee.
Senior Colonel Cheloi Sie, Commander of the Perlim Ground Force in Territory Nineteen, turned back to regard the far-off battle front. She stood at ease, feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind her back. Koul ignored the thrust of her breasts and any suggestion of femininity she might have engendered.
The woman was a spraen. A cold, heartless, ravening she-dog. But, she was good…and he hated admitting it.
Day 1,500 of the War:
Cheloi stuck a finger between her neck and the high collar of her tunic, pulling at the material. She had the utmost respect for the camp’s laundry section but wished they didn’t keep using so much stiffener in the uniform.
She gave her reflection in the mirror a critical eye, following the crisp pleats in her trousers, confirming that the thin black stripes running down the outside of the legs were parallel, and that everything metallic on the uniform gleamed. Not a bad job overall, considering she lost her aide almost two months ago. Since that time, the state of her uniform was dependent on whichever hapless enlisted soldier the sergeant frog-marched into her office at the beginning of each day. The results were…inconsistent. This morning, her uniform looked good. Tomorrow, it might not. The unfortunate thing was that she was starting to get used to it.
She walked to her desk to pick up the overnight reports, trying to hide her limp, but was unsuccessful. One foot clumped on the floor with a heaviness she detested. The camp surgeon told her that the lingering unsteadiness was her own fault for refusing to be evacuated to a more modern facility, but Cheloi knew that any vacuum in the territory’s command would be filled in an instant, and by whom. She couldn’t risk it. So, instead, she gritted her teeth and paraded her disability in front of the General Staff every day, forcing herself to put weight on that leg and will precious strength back into the limb.
The weekly command briefing would be starting soon. Cheloi took a deep breath and exited her quarters.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about the loss of an aide. In a way, his absence was a relief because it gave her more privacy but, since taking command of the territory, she had become used to someone picking up after her. She missed that often unseen hand that anticipated her wishes, sourced favourite titbits for the dinner table and delivered crisp clean uniforms and gleaming shoes to her bedside at dawn. Sometime soon, she knew she would have to see about acquiring a new assistant/driver. Not today.
The rough, sandy floor of the underground complex muffled the sound of her shoes as she strode unevenly along the main tunnel. The soldiers liked to slide along the fine grains when they thought nobody was looking, scuffing their footwear terribly in the process. Even the junior officers did it. In truth she couldn’t find it within herself to begrudge them their little moments of fun. All of them were parsecs away from home and not anticipating a victory anytime soon.
Koul told her she was too lax allowing such liberties, that firm discipline in battle began with firm discipline in camp. She countered by replying that she considered it an innocent outlet for pent-up energy. As long as nobody was stupid enough to attempt a sand-slide in front of her eyes, she was content to pretend the practice didn’t exist.
The door to the main briefing room loomed and slid open at her approach. Of course Koul was already there. Koul was always there. It was as if he had a time machine, able to peer one hour into the future, to ensure he would be everywhere ahead of her.
Her lately deceased aide once told her that the soldiers called Koul “Ghost” behind his back, because of his unusual colouring. With his pale skin, burnished silver hair and light grey eyes, one could easily imagine him as an apparition, a manifestation from Perlim fable. The flaxen-coloured uniform of the Perlim Ground Forces, with its high-necked tunic and matching trousers outlined in black and gold, glowed against Cheloi’s darker skin. But on Koul it looked like a cage, imprisoning his ethereal-looking body on the material plane.
Cheloi nodded a greeting to him and he answered. Koul was nothing if not scrupulously polite amidst company. Turning attention from him, she scanned the rest of the table. Most of the sector commanders were already seated, their conversation lowering to a murmur at her entrance. The door behind her slid open again and she knew by the rhythm of the footsteps that her adjutant, Major Rumis Swonnessy, had just entered.
People did themselves a disservice by underestimating Rumis. He was tall, tanned and absolutely gorgeous. Others might think that Cheloi kept him around purely because he was so decorative. They might even have imagined a secret affair between them. With his dark, mysterious eyes, glossy black hair and dimples, it was an obvious but mistaken assumption. Cheloi liked and trusted Rumis, not because of his looks, but because of his abilities. His usually open expression hid a sharp and quick intelligence, and he had proven his loyalty to her in the past, two traits that were hard to find in the present environment. In the tank of sharks currently contained within the meeting room, at least Rumis was one shark on her side.
She walked to her customary seat, again trying to shield her limp as much as possible, and sat down. All eyes turned to her.
“I’ve been through the reports,” she began, putting the documents on the table in front of her.
Cheloi had been holding these meetings every week for more than a year. The format was unchanged. She would begin with a summary of the current conflict, adding directives and requests from Central Control. She would then turn the discussion over to her senior officers for a sector-by-sector outline. Their voices droned in the stuffy air of the closed room but she forced herself to pay attention. There was equally important information in what the commanders didn’t tell her as what they did. She cast a glance around the table, searching each earnest face for subtle non-verbal cues, hints that things may not be going as well as their words indicated.
Sub-Colonel Vanqill, for example, was a young and ambitious officer but lacking the finer appreciation of logistics and human resource management. He was boasting of impressive advances in Green sector but she could tell from the tightness around his mid-brown eyes that he wasn’t telling the full story. Further probing brought out the truth that, once again, his soldiers were outrunning the supply lines, daring the Menon fighters to cut them off. Not for the first time, she was forced to divert troops from the adjacent, relatively stable Black sector to intervene and help hold a route back to the straggling supply transports.
She knew what Koul would have done in a similar position. He would have tolerated one, maybe two, mistakes. But by the third time, Koul would have withheld reinforcements and let Vanqill and his battalions perish. Her second-in-command read her reluctance to let Vanqill charge into death as a sign of weakness but, after the Sab-Iqur affair, he knew better than to harangue her about it.
Diverting a company from the neighbouring Black sector to hold the Green line, however, meant mollifying Black sector commander, Colonel Senel Wakor. Cheloi still hadn’t succeeded in that task when the meeting came to an end.
With cool gleaming eyes, Koul watched his peers leave the briefing room then turned his gaze to his superior. There were now only three left at the table: him, the Colonel, and the Colonel’s adjutant, Major Rumis Swonnessy.
Like a signal, Cheloi heard Rumis’ soft sigh beside her. While she had been focusing on each of the commanders as they spoke, he had been watching the dynamics between the rest of them. His small exhalation told her that an argument was about to begin.
“With all due respect, Senior Colonel,” Koul began, when the door was safely shut, “I keep reminding you that you either need to pull Vanqill into line, or allow the Menons to do it for you.”
“It’s unlike you to mince words, Colonel,” Cheloi rebuked in a calm voice and tried not to notice the slight smile breaking on Rumis’ face. It was childish but Koul always seemed to bring out the worst in her. “What you mean to say is that we should let Vanqill and his soldiers perish.”
“This is not the fourth, nor even the sixth, time he has outrun his orders and his supplies.”
“He is unsettling the enemy by taking the fight to them for a change,” she countered. “While the rest of the commanders tend to a caution that borders on lethargy, at least Vanqill tries to be proactive. He may not always succeed, but at least he’s making the effort.”
“His efforts are turning him into a danger to himself as well as the entire Ground Forces deployment in th
is territory.” Koul was beginning to lose his temper, his voice rising and his jaw working even when he wasn’t saying anything. “If you don’t do anything about it….”
She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Koul?”
There was a moment of charged silence, before he pulled himself together with obvious effort. “He is a threat to the war effort,” he concluded in a sullen voice. “If everybody else starts thinking like him, the entire territory will fall apart.”
Koul’s way of looking at a situation was simple. If there was a risk to the campaign, the best way forward was to eliminate that risk and, as he saw it, Vanqill and his foolhardy tactics were the biggest risk to the Nineteen. Unfortunately, Cheloi was privy to certain information regarding the state of Perlim military resources, and the message from Central Control was clear. We are running out of bodies. Preserve the soldiers.
“We are an all-volunteer army,” she cut in, her expression kind, mostly because she knew it annoyed the hell out of him. “That means we conserve forces as much as possible. I agree that Sub-Colonel Vanqill is inexperienced, but he is also energetic. Furthermore, I will not allow an entire sector to be massacred just because you itch to teach a puppy some lessons.” She paused. “Of course, if you disagree with my assessment of the situation….”
This was not the first time Koul had challenged her and she knew it wouldn’t be the last. Every time he did it, it was up to her to slap him down. If he was a pet relehn dog, she would have had him shot by now for his pig-headedness.
Koul grimaced and looked away. “Yes, yes, I understand.” His hands, splayed on the table’s matte surface, pressed down so heavily Cheloi thought they would leave impressions on the metal. “You are in charge of this territory and I bow to the wisdom of Central Control.”
“Very good.” She nodded and allowed herself to relax, leaning back in her chair. “Now, do you have any ideas on how to handle Wakor?”
A veteran and the commander of Black sector, Senel Wakor also disliked the impetuous Vanqill for a number of reasons, including the fact that Vanqill was little more than half Wakor’s years and already a Sub-Colonel. The young commander also had a string of successes under his belt that seemed to defy the accepted and venerated tactics that Wakor had learnt at officer school and an arrogant energy that rubbed most of the senior officers the wrong way. Wakor’s dislike, more than apparent at the briefing table, was compounded by the constant redeployment of his own sector troops to help the younger man.