The Gallant (Star Legend Book 3)

by J. J. Green

  Pain lanced her head again, and she bit back a cry. Cradling her forehead, she winced as she looked at Morgan, expecting she was sending to her once more. But the voice that entered her mind wasn’t a woman’s.

  “Mummy,” Perran said, “Mummy, are you awake? Can you hear me? Morgan has been teaching me how to speak to people far away without comm. Isn’t it cool?”

  Chapter Seven

  Low cots lined the walls and stood in rows across the floor of the vast ballroom in the former BI Ambassador’s residence in Kingston. Each was occupied by an injured Resistance fighter. While the Alliance had been assaulting one area of the city, the island’s Resistance had organized a coordinated attack on another area, squeezing the EAC between them.

  Wright surveyed the scene in the ballroom. Unlike the BA’s field hospitals, this place seemed ill-equipped and poorly staffed.

  The man who had refused to shake hands with him, later grudgingly introducing himself as Devon, stopped a medic carrying a tray of bloody surgical instruments and told her they had eight Royal Marines in need of treatment.

  She did a double-take, looking from Devon to Wright and back, before pursing her lips with disapproval. However, she didn’t protest, only nodded before continuing with her task.

  Devon’s group had led the survivors in Wright’s platoon through streets still boiling with skirmishes to this small quarter under Resistance control. The fight for Kingston was a long way from over yet.

  Wright said, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate—”

  Devon cut him off with a swiftly upraised hand. “This is only until your men are stabilized and you can reunite with your forces on the other side of the city.”

  “I understand, and I’m grateful.”

  He actually didn’t understand. Not fully. He’d thought they were both fighting on the same side. The man’s frank animosity was puzzling. But he didn’t push it. For whatever reason, the Resistance had rescued his platoon from a hopeless situation. Maybe they just hated the EAC a tad more than they hated the Alliance.

  “I’ll leave you to organize your troops,” said Devon. “You might find some empty rooms in the building where they can rest, but we can’t help you with any supplies. We’re low as it is.”

  “It’s fine,” said Wright. “I get it. Maybe we can find something to do to help you.”

  The Resistance leader’s expression remained impassive in response to the offer, as if he would believe it when he saw it. Without another word, he left.

  Wright’s platoon was waiting in the marble-floored lobby of the building among the oil paintings of previous ambassadors, sliced, ripped, and daubed with graffiti. He now ordered that his injured Marines be brought into the ballroom.

  His men and women were all traumatized and tired after their long fight. They needed rest, but he wouldn’t allow them more than an hour or two. They also needed to stay active. It would keep them from dwelling on the events of the devastating engagement they’d survived. There would be time for grief and nightmares when everything was over.

  The medic returned with two others to triage his injured, who had now appeared, carried or walking supported by other Marines. After ordering the healthy remainder to find a spot where they wouldn’t be in anyone’s way, he replaced his helmet and went outside. It was time to take stock and make his report to Carol.

  He perched on a low wall at the bottom of the wide steps that led down to street level. The street was empty of life, and the sun was rising on a city of smoke and ruddy haze. He brought up the list of dead on his HUD. One fatality was too many, and here were Elphicke, Patel, and twelve more good men and women who had given their lives. Men and women? Most of them had barely lived, and— He closed his eyes. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on the deaths.

  He comm’d Carol.

  “What are you doing, Major?” the officer interrupted in the middle of Wright’s update. “I ordered you to join the rest of the troops regrouping at the Prime Minister’s Palace.”

  “We aren’t able to reach it, sir. The EAC control the intervening territory.”

  “I see, well—”

  “The Resistance are helping us out. They rescued us, and they’ve taken us to their field hospital.”

  “The Resistance? We’ve been having problems coordinating with them. It’s lucky they were in the right place to help you.”

  “Very lucky. Sir, I think they’re not entirely on board with the Alliance retaking Jamaica.”

  “You don’t say? That doesn’t make a lot of sense. Are you sure? What’s the alternative? Do they want to remain living under the control of the EAC?”

  “From what I can tell, they seem to want independence. But I only spoke to one of the leaders briefly.”

  Carol hotly retorted, “If they think they’re going to win back Jamaica without our help, they’re living in cloud cuckoo land.”

  “Maybe, sir, but—”

  “We’ll be damned if we’re going to liberate them just to hand over valuable territory to their control. Sit tight, Major. I may need you to do some digging and find out more about their intentions.”

  Carol cut the comm.

  Wright wondered if he’d said too much. The Jamaicans would never win back their land without the Alliance’s help. On the other hand, the BA’s military was under the impression it was fighting for one of its own territories. If Devon represented the opinion of the majority of the Resistance, the two forces had opposite aims.

  He could see the Jamaicans’ viewpoint. If they wanted autonomy, they should have it. But it did seem kind of underhand to allow the Britannic Alliance to expend its people and arms on winning a war when they wouldn’t benefit from it.

  He heaved a sigh. Let the higher ups sort it out. He would focus on doing his job.

  The sun was a little higher, illuminating a scene of devastation. In his passage through the city, he didn’t think he’d seen a single intact window near ground level. Looters or armed conflict had taken out everything for the first two or three stories. Scorches left by pulse rounds covered walls, abandoned, burned out vehicles littered the streets, and bomb sites punctuated rows of buildings.

  Summoning the energy from an unknown place, Wright rose from the wall and wearily climbed the steps to the Ambassador’s Residence. He wanted to find out how his injured were doing. He wasn’t sure how long he could rely on the kindness of the Resistance, given its feelings about the BA.

  As he was walking between two rows of cots, trying to find his Marines, he spotted Devon. He was walking down the next row, talking to a white man. Both were using the local language.

  Wright halted in surprise. He recognized the man Devon was talking to, but he couldn’t place him. It was odd that he should know him at all. This was only the second time he’d been in Jamaica, and the first time he’d also been on duty, attempting to assassinate Dwyr Orr. But Devon’s companion didn’t look like military.

  He scoured his brain for several moments before he made the connection. He hadn’t seen the man in real life, but in vidnews reports. He was looking at Hans Jonte, head of SIS.

  Jonte looked older and thinner than Wright remembered him. Gray thickly speckled his overgrown black hair and beard, and his features were lined and hollowed. His worn, stained clothes were also a far cry from the smart business suits government officials wore, but Wright was positive he was correct. What ordeals had the man endured? It must have been quite a feat to survive the Crusaders’ invasion.

  Noticing he was being stared at, Jonte quit his conversation with Devon and came over.

  “Major Wright?” he asked.

  “Yes, I—”

  “As soon as your injured are treated, be prepared to move on, Major.”

  Taken aback, Wright didn’t immediately reply. He’d expected Jonte to be relieved to make contact with someone from the BA military, but he appeared irritated.

  “You have to understand,” Jonte went on, “our resources are extremely stretched. It isn�
��t in our interest to be helping allies whose aims aren’t completely aligned with our own.”

  Our resources? Our interest?

  “Sorry,” Wright replied, “but I’m confused. Aren’t you Hans Jonte?”

  “That’s correct. Your confusion is understandable, but I no longer work for the BA government. I represent the Jamaican Resistance now.”

  “Right, well, nothing would suit me better than to reunite with the rest of the BA forces. We’ll be out of your hair just as soon as we can.”

  “Thanks.”

  With that, Jonte left him.

  The former head of SIS was now working for the Jamaican Resistance? Wright filed the fact under ‘Not My Business’ and continued to search for his injured.

  HE DISCOVERED ONE OF them recovering from emergency surgery. The doc said the woman wouldn’t be safe to move for at least a week. The other seven had less serious injuries and would be ambulatory, with help, in a couple of days. With the Resistance holding the south of the city, the BA the north, and the EAC holding the sector in between, the platoon was stuck where it was for the time being anyway.

  He ordered his uninjured Marines to make themselves useful to the Resistance in whatever way they could, whether it was helping to move patients or supplies, finding sources of food, or searching for the missing. He spent his time tending to the needs of his recovering men and women to ease the burden on the medical staff.

  By the third night in the hospital, Wright had almost forgotten about his strange encounter with Hans Jonte. He hadn’t seen the man again, and his mind was focused on dealing with the current situation. Then, that evening when he was outside in the Ambassador’s grounds, Jonte approached him.

  “I hope you didn’t mind me being rather brusque with you the other day,” he said. “You have to understand my position here is delicate.”

  “Not a problem, Mr Jonte. Devon had already made it clear the Resistance was only prepared to go so far to help us. I’ll be moving the platoon on as soon as it’s safe.”

  “I’m sure Devon would appreciate it. Um...” He checked their surroundings. No one else was nearby. “When you’re finally face to face with your CO, Major, there’s something I’d like you to do for me. Could you pass on a message? I’d prefer you didn’t say anything over comm. You never know who might pick it up.”

  Wright’s eyebrows rose. “Our encryption is tight, sir.”

  Jonte gave a half smile. “Probably not as much as you think. The message is to be passed on to the new chiefs of staff. I want them to know I’m still alive and continuing the work of the Alliance in Jamaica.”

  Wright’s eyebrows rose higher. “But you said—”

  “I said what was expedient in the situation. Devon could overhear us, you see. I have to be careful. But I am still loyal to the BA. I want the people in power to know that. I hope I don’t need to spell it out that this is to be kept strictly between us.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr Jonte. I’ll pass on the message.”

  “Thank you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Lorcan paced outside Iolani Hale’s cabin, his hands clasped behind his back, waiting for her to emerge. She’d refused to return to the suite she’d been confined to when she first arrived on the Bres, so he’d given her another, one of the best. It had seemed only fair after his earlier treatment of her. Though he could be ruthless in his business dealings, resorting to kidnapping had been a moment of madness. He regretted his actions—most especially since the upshot had been he was forced to take her on as a consultant.

  Ever since the day when Kekoa had tried to help her escape and he’d agreed to her proposal, he’d avoided her. The embarrassment and awkwardness were too raw. But the situation could not go on forever. He had to make use of her in the manner she’d dictated, sooner or later.

  His attitude toward the world-renowned zoologist had altered radically. Not so long ago, he’d wanted her to share her knowledge and advice with him. He’d sought her out to invite her to participate in the Project, to help fulfill humanity’s destiny of colonizing the galaxy. Yet now she was here...

  The door slid open, revealing Hale dressed in the informal ship’s uniform of pale gray tunic and slacks. Staff could wear whatever they wanted, but these clothes from the ship’s printers were free to all and most didn’t bother wearing anything else.

  She tilted her head back to meet his gaze and, as always, he found her frank stare uncomfortable. Clearly, it would be a very long time before she forgave or forgot what he’d done.

  “I got your message,” she said, “and I replied. Didn’t you see it? There’s no need for you to accompany me. I know my way around the ship very well.”

  “So you’ve settled in?” he asked, deciding to overlook her slight rudeness. He’d thought he was being kind in escorting her to the meeting.

  “I guess so. It isn’t home and it never will be, but after a few weeks here, I’m finally getting used to the place.”

  “I imagine it must feel very different from your home in the jungle. Life aboard a starship isn’t for everyone. Some find it taxing. If it gets too much for you, don’t forget you’re free to visit the habitats at any time. The ones that are up and running, that is. Kekoa can tell you which they are.”

  “Thanks. I’ve already visited a few as part of my investigation into the Project.”

  “I hope you found them up to standard.”

  She gave him a look. She’d obviously found the habitats anything but up to standard. However, all she said, was, “Let’s save that conversation for the meeting, okay?”

  Lorcan tensed his jaw, uncomfortable that she wouldn’t tell him her findings immediately. If there was something important to know, he’d didn’t want it sprung on him in front of his staff. “Ms Hale—”

  “Iolani is fine. We’re going to be working closely together so the less bullshit the better, Lorcan.”

  “I can’t disagree with that. But what I wanted to say is—”

  Iolani abruptly halted and her hand flew to her ear. Her features became suffused with joy.

  “Yes, that’s right. Thanks! I’ll be right there.”

  As if suddenly remembering she wasn’t alone, she said to Lorcan, “Sorry, I’m going to be late for the meeting. A delivery I’ve been waiting for just arrived. I have to go to the shuttle bay.”

  “Can’t it wait?” Lorcan asked, but she was already trotting away from him and she didn’t reply, though she must have heard him.

  He went after her, wondering what she was so excited about. The meeting couldn’t start until she was there anyway. As he walked quickly in her wake, he comm’d the others to let them know about the delay. Had she ordered some scientific equipment? Her passion for her discipline was well known and would explain her sudden happiness.

  Only one of the Bres’s passenger shuttle bays was currently operational, its capacity sufficient to cope with the movements of staff arriving and leaving the ship. When the prospective colonists began to arrive, six more would open to cope with the influx. Cargo shipments of construction materials formed the majority of arrivals, and they went to whichever landing dock was closest to the site where they were to be used.

  If Iolani had ordered equipment, it had to be small and probably fragile to be shipped via a shuttle intended for personnel. Lorcan’s interest was piqued. He’d long had a fascination for the intricate, complex machinery scientists used in their experiments.

  The light above the bay doors turned green, and Iolani rushed between them the second they began to draw apart.

  The snub-nosed, narrow-winged, forty-seater shuttle stood on its pad, clamps securing it. The hatch opened, and the first of the passengers began descending the steps.

  Iolani broke from a trot to a run as she crossed the steel floor of the bay.

  Lorcan halted, puzzled. What could possibly be so important to the woman? Then it hit him. It wasn’t equipment that had arrived, it was a person. Her boyfriend, or maybe a family member h
ad come to stay with her.

  He was a little put out he hadn’t been consulted about the unauthorized guest, but he couldn’t begrudge her the company. As he knew too well, life aboard the Bres could be awfully lonely. It would make her stay more tolerable. He resumed walking. It wouldn’t hurt to meet the newcomer and introduce himself.

  At the front of the shuttle, a smaller hatch for the pilot and crew opened.

  A bark rang out and echoed around the cavernous bay.

  He stopped again.

  Not a person...

  Iolani’s two massive dogs leapt from the crew hatch. They jumped directly to the bay floor, bypassing the steps entirely. Iolani was twenty meters from them, and they covered the distance in about four bounds.

  She wisely sank to her knees—the animals could easily topple the small woman in their enthusiasm—and she was soon surrounded by a blur of ecstatic dogs’ bodies. She rubbed their flanks and heads and nuzzled them, her face wet, either from their licks or her tears or perhaps both.

  Lorcan watched, his hands on his hips. His experience of the woman’s pets had been terrifying, and he was not happy they were aboard his ship. If she’d asked him for permission to have them there, he would have probably said no, which, of course, was why she hadn’t asked him.

  How had she discovered where they were being kept? The question provoked greater annoyance. Only a couple of trusted staff members knew which animal rescue center in Suriname he’d tasked with collecting and caring for the animals. That meant that, not only had Iolani gone behind his back to order the shipping of her dogs, one of his employees had colluded with her. If there was one thing he despised among the people whose wages he paid, it was disloyalty.

  He had an uncomfortable feeling of control slipping from his grasp. Iolani had questioned his morals and the scientific basis of the Project. Now she was undermining his authority too.

  He sourly watched the joyful reunion, waiting for it to be over. Some moments later, she finally noticed him.