Is the surf up? The middle of summer would be prime time for epic days of surfing and nights of Downy’s parties along West Beach. There were times I thought the whole city came out. The smoke from fires hung low over the beach on the calmer nights, and the smells of a thousand different recipes were pure heaven. Three months earlier, I’d been home for leave and spent every night on the beach with Berkeley. It took every ounce of my being not to stay in that happy memory. I missed the slow, tranquil pace of life there, but about the same time I remembered my name, I knew I would find myself back in the service.
<
I stopped and spun in place. “You really need to try harder, Peck.” I smiled genuinely. My suite mate was a good guy but too much of an ass-kisser for my liking. He was six inches shorter than me with dark hair and a perpetual smirk. Peck stuck out his hand, and I shook it.
“How do you do that, Roark?” There was no first-name basis in the service, for the most part. People were known by their last name, their rank, or hey you.
“Not my fault you sound like an elephant in the grass.”
Peck let my hand go and smoothed his hair back in a rakish, perfectly pilot-like gesture. Of all of my classmates, he was too much the cliché I remembered from movies I watched as a kid.
“Whatever, man. So you actually going to hang out with your classmates for a change? Gonna try to find a bunkmate for the weekend?”
Hardly. I forced a smile and tried to blink away the sudden desire to punch him. “Get to know my classmates, yes. I’ll let the rest of you find temporary bunkmates.” We’d been on the planet for months and were deep into the tactical portion of our pilot training. I knew Peck because we shared a common bathroom in our suite, like all the junior officers. Hirami and Jenkins made up the rest of my three-exocraft training section, but neither of them would be here tonight. They’d drawn back-to-back shifts as squadron-duty officers. Their weekend would be spent watching instructors and trainees come and go from the unit headquarters while they were almost literally tied to the squadron’s reception desk. Poor bastards. Pulling that duty was something I’d only done once, thanks to some backdoor programming. Lily had her advantages. Beyond the unlucky bastards, the only people I knew by name were the instructors, and I had no desire to know any of them.
When I died the first time, instructors at service schools were mostly true professionals who wanted to teach their successors how to fight and survive like they had. But even a few years before my time, there were those who found cushy instructor jobs and basically did nothing of importance during their tenures. For some of them, nothing anyone did was good enough, and they would blanch when asked for clarification or to assist with any so-called misunderstanding. They’d chastise everyone else for not knowing more about the subject and for even asking questions in the first place. Our whole group of instructors on Mars was just like that, including their predilection for eschewing actual combat tactics and doctrine. Rumor had it that they kept an honest-to-God “kill board” in their private locker room to count how many trainees they’d simulated killing in air combat maneuvering.
The whole thing made me want to puke. But flight school was an end to justify the means. My memories continued to snap together like puzzle pieces. Flying helped. I’d always wanted to be a pilot, but poor eyesight in my first life made that impossible. The future had no such restrictions.
Peck stepped ahead of me and pushed through the swinging door to the Brass Anchor. He was a cocky lieutenant, the equivalent of a captain in the Terran Defense Force. What I wouldn’t have given to tell him my agreed-upon rank, but like the rest of my story, it had to stay secret until after graduation. Until then, we were simply trainees with no rank or authority. There was one other person on Mars who knew my story, and I was under orders to keep it that way. General Crawley had seen to everything, including having me ordered into flight training, because since my integration, I’d put together pieces of an idea I’d had in the weeks before I died in Afghanistan in 2016. Flying was a part of that idea, and that was enough for Crawley to make it happen. All I had to do was get out there and prove myself.
Six more weeks, Kieran.
<
Stop it, Lily. I loved having a protocol, but there were times she made me want to shake my head.
<
Instead of turning to the right and the sea of round tables dominating the floor, I turned left and headed to the massive bar. Eye contact would embolden her even further. The last thing I wanted was more attention from her. The crowd at the central circular bar was light, and I found an empty stool and sat down. The large, round room sat under a geodesic dome with a thick, clear window at the top. Looking up through the lights of the bar, I could easily make out the Milky Way. I couldn’t wait to get out there.
The robot bartender slid over to me.
“I’ll have a Tooheys, please.”
“Make that two.” Commander Bussot settled onto the stool next to me. “Good evening, Trainee.”
Are you kidding me? I wanted to burst out laughing. A few hours before, she’d been calling me by my first name. Now I was simply a trainee again. Power plays and egos. Spare me.
Bussot grinned at me with a predatory look in her green eyes. Her black hair was bobbed in the back, and she had long bangs that curled toward her chin. She wore more makeup than regulations allowed, but it was tasteful and perpetually flawless. Hirami joked that she had a makeup kit in her Intimidator. That was why he ended up on duty all weekend. Maybe he was smarter than I was. In any case, the Black Widow had come to my doorstep. Again.
“Good evening, Commander.” Our beers came, and I took a long, slow sip. For a split second, I remembered the first one I’d had in a Sydney bar. I was a long way from there.
“You look pensive, Roark. Thinking about why you can’t beat me in a fair fight?” Her tone was light, but the words were tipped with sarcasm and poison. When I didn’t respond, she leaned closer. “Something on your mind?”
“Home.” I stared up at a holoscreen. Soccer again. Even tennis would have been a welcome change. “Thinking of fish tacos and cold beer after a day of surfing.”
“You hardly seem like the surfing type,” she said. Anyone who could make that claim just from looking at someone had obviously never surfed. “I tried it once. Hated it.”
The urge to quip about being better than her made me pick up my beer and take a much longer, deeper sip than I’d planned. “It’s not for everyone,” I said finally.
“You know,” she replied, and I knew the subject was about to drastically change, “I’m not really mad at you for ramming my aircraft. I’d probably have done the same. After I’d expended my ammunition, you understand.”
Really? I shook my head. There wasn’t a chance in hell she would do the same. Fleet doctrine was to engage from as far away as tactically possible and then run. “And why is that?”
“That would have been at the limit of my skill. You took the easy way out instead of changing the way you approached the fight.”
“The fight,” I replied slowly, “was more than the tactical situation on the ground and the silly tactical situation in the air. It’s how they worked together. The Styrahi are our allies, and they want to see Fleet and TDF working toward the same objectives.”
“The Styrahi don’t care about our tactics. In reality, they’ll win any ground fight they are placed in. Humans don’t have the stomach for it.” Bussot drank from her beer and dug into the shoulder pocket of her coveralls. Out of a small leather case, she removed a long, tan cigarette and lit it with a lighter. She blew out a stream of smoke from the corner of her mouth. “Stop trying to fight the ground war.”
I glanced away. One of the soccer pl
ayers writhed on the ground, clearly faking an injury. “What about the Battle of Libretto? Human armored forces did—”
“That battle was won by Fleet, Roark. I’d suggest you read your history and focus on completing your tactical training.” She tugged at the zipper of her flight suit, flirting without touching. Her flight suit bore master aviators’ wings and was unzipped below the regulation standard. Without looking down, I caught a glimpse of something lacy and black underneath her full breasts. “Which is why I wanted to talk with you before you fell in with the rest of your degenerate classmates for the evening.”
Here it comes. I took a breath. “Is something wrong, Commander?”
“Your academic average is in good standing, but in reviewing the flight logs, your performance statistics just aren’t there.” Her left hand found my thigh and lingered there. “I think we could certainly improve your performance scores to something back above the standard. I’d hate for something awful to derail your young career.”
<
I know, Lily. I gently removed Bussot’s hand from my leg and returned it to her lap. She tried, and failed, to keep my hand there longer than a heartbeat. “Thank you, Commander. You flatter me, but I’m doing the best that I can and merely want to be graded fairly, no matter the outcome.”
Bussot laughed and said something in French I did not catch.
<
Exact words?
<
Bussot gave me a smile, but it was one of pity. “You are a very difficult person to read, Kieran.”
The use of my first name brought a smile to my face. “No, I’m not, Commander. I’m sorry. I’m married and not interested.”
Bussot snorted. “You are interested more in ground forces than flying your own aircraft. You need to let the TDF and Styrahi worry about their fight and keep your head in the aircraft. Fleet and TDF are separate entities because of the Battle of Libretto. Do you understand? We cannot work together. They do not understand the complexity of aerial maneuvering, and we don’t care about the ground war.”
“We have to have someplace to land, Commander.” I forced a smile. I wanted out of the conversation and out of the bar, consequences be damned. The whole game was ridiculous, which was exactly why I never bothered playing in the first place. “If we’re fighting to save a planet, or rescue civilians, we have to care about them.”
“They are responsible for their own failures, as are we.” She beamed and leaned closer. Her hand traced my thigh again, but it did not stay. “As are you.”
I shifted my leg away and stared into her pretty face. “I said I’m not interested, Commander.”
Her face hardened for a moment. I knew the rumors from my classmates. This was a woman who never took no for an answer. Rejecting her advances was the only thing I could do. The whole business of temporary duty being a sacred zone where soldiers could do things without fear of reprisal was long dead. She knew the game she was playing was dangerous, and the thrill it gave her was enough to keep going. Saying no, and holding that line against further advances, would bring a bunch of unwanted attention on me. Graduation, no matter my test average and performance scores, was not a certainty.
<>
Thanks, Lily.
“You want some advice, Kieran? Get in front of the aircraft for a change. Next time, you won’t even have a chance to end the fight on your terms. I take what I want.”
“Is that a threat, Commander?” I asked innocently.
Cigarette in hand, she picked up the blue bottle of beer and smiled at me. “We’ll see, Trainee Roark. We’ll see.” Without another word, she strolled across the bar to the corner where the instructors gathered like horny wolves.
I caught Peck smiling and nodding at her before he caught my eye and shook his head. I tipped my beer bottle toward him, assuming he was commiserating with my plight. She’d bedded most of the other male trainees before we’d left Earth, I was reasonably sure.
<
Log the attempt, Lily. We’ll probably need it before this is all said and done. She’s looking for something to hold over my head. Let’s hope Crawley’s people are better than her.
<
That surprised me, but it wasn’t uncommon. I’d spent half a year as a null profile, meaning that people scanned me and got no information. In contrast, I could look at Peck and get his public life story across my retina in milliseconds—more if he allowed friends and colleagues unrestricted access. There were always backdoors for people with the smarts, and the time, to look for them.
Ensure he’s blocked from the encrypted set, too.
<
Turning back to the holoscreen, I considered it for a moment. What would Peck be trying to find? For all he knew, I was an older-than-average trainee with good flight-aptitude scores who would rather watch old movies than drink with his classmates. That I was preoccupied with the ground fight in our tactical-exercise preparations was not outside the scope of our mission. It was just unusual.
Log every attempt to look into my file, Lily. No matter who it is or how inconsequential you think it is, I want to know when people go looking for things about me without asking.
<
I finished my beer while trying to understand soccer, what everyone else called football, and letting my mind wander. None of my classmates came to the bar, nor did Bussot make an effort to return. I caught her looking at me once, but the rest of the time, she was into her own conversations and doing the whole pilot-talks-with-hands thing that made me laugh and wonder how in the hell I’d gotten there. My classmates hung onto her every word. I was supposed to be in there with them, but the idea of worshipping instructors I couldn’t even respect kept me firmly planted at the bar with my thoughts. And my memories.
Crawley had brought me back because of something he read in his great-great-grandfather’s diary. There was an idea hidden in my brain that would change how humanity fought. If war was coming, I needed that idea to spring out. I caught Bussot looking at me again. She smirked with just the corners of her mouth and settled into the chair next to Peck. I put the over-under on the amount of time it would take for her hand to find his lap at one minute.
If I’d bet the under, I would have won.
Near the end of my first beer, a small glass with ice and caramel-colored liquid appeared in front of me. The bartender nodded and said in an all-too-human voice, “From a friend.”
“Great.” I picked up the glass and swirled it, sniffing carefully. Bourbon. The bartender slid to the other side of the bar, so I couldn’t ask who’d sent it.
A friend had bought an American bourbon for me. I didn’t have much of an Australian accent, and I didn’t dare fake the rest. Living there, the accent accumulated naturally. I kind of liked it, and it gave me a little cover. The possibility that someone knew where I was really from rose significantly. If someone who wasn’t cleared for the information knew my identity, the whole sleeper program and everyone in it could be in danger.
Drink in hand, I turned on the stool and surveyed the room. The obvious culprits were easy to find, though they seemed too busy to engage in a significant information heist. Bussot was all over Peck in a corner booth. Well, not all over, but they were sitting close, and she was pouring vodka for him again and again. She could have been the one who sent th
e bourbon, but I wasn’t going over there to ask.
My classmates, those who weren’t being harassed by instructors, were sitting quietly along the main corridor windows, looking as if they’d rather be anywhere else, too. The opposite corner of the room was a cacophony of sound and a gyration of movement all packed into a tiny dance floor. I remembered news stories of infamous aviator conventions and realized that the instructors were not as bad as generations before, but their grandstanding left much to be desired. The rest of the room held no clues as to my benefactor. The drink was smooth, and even though I didn’t drink bourbon often, I could tell it was good.
The more powerful the drink, the slower you sip, Kieran.
The voice was crystal clear, but I could not place it. One of my extended family from the farm, I knew. They’d made homemade wine in the cold, dank crawl space. More than a few of them distilled moonshine in the dark hollers above the Nolichucky River, too. Grapevines still grew on the hill down from the old springhouse.
I took a slow, cautious sip of the bourbon and turned to order a water. Behind me, there was a ripple of silence through a sea of loud conversation. Elysium Station was an Earth Fleet base, but the entire planet of Mars was a free species zone for the allies of the Legion of Planets. Earth was still a mostly no-alien zone, for whatever reason, but away from the immediate control of the Terran Council, alien interaction was expected. Clearly, on a Fleet base, there was something prejudicial in the ripple of silence.
I turned and watched a tall, olive-skinned Styrahi in a flowing white-and-gold dress step gracefully through the bar. Her long auburn hair was tied up with gold. An insignia pinned to the one shoulder strap of the dress caught my eye. I’d never seen it up close before. The wreath of gold stars covering a thick arrow-like vector to the right meant she was a flag officer. Dealing with human generals and admirals could be challenging enough. With a major interspecies military exercise on the horizon, I shouldn’t have been surprised to see her, but I was. They tended to stay out of human affairs, mostly by the design of the Terran Council. However, the Battle of Libretto had brought them into the fold as equal allies on the battlefield. Every year, they exercised their ground forces against Earth’s in an effort to learn and build esprit de corps. They were incredible tacticians, and humanity could have learned a lot from them. But their being alien made too many higher-ups in both Fleet and the TDF cringe.
Vendetta Protocol Page 5