MISSION VERITAS (Black Saber Novels Book 1)

by John Murphy

  “Well…” Gritvicken paused, looking ruffled. “In some cases, I suppose that’s necessary, but we avoid it as much as possible.”

  “Who controls how much force the Global Alliance can use?”

  Gritvicken looked surprised that her explanations might be challenged. “We use however much is necessary to bring the parties into peaceful agreement for the good of the people.”

  “Do they resort to bombing cities?”

  Gritvicken looked shocked. “No! Absolutely not!”

  “What keeps the Global Alliance from doing bad things, like bombing cities and killing innocent people, in its efforts to keep the peace? Who keeps its military power in check?”

  “I think I see your hypothetical challenge,” Gritvicken said. “Rest assured, though—that would never happen. The people of the world wouldn’t tolerate it.”

  “How would the people of the world know if it did happen?”

  “Trust me,” Gritvicken said, “they would know in an instant. Worldwide news communications being what they are, everyone would know if anything untoward happened.”

  “I see.” Killian digested her answer. None of the recruits knew anything about the atrocities going on in Bangkok. It was as Risky and Doc had described—there had been a news blackout. He decided to push further.

  “And, for the sake of argument, if the Global Alliance were to take things a little too far and commit atrocities, even accidentally?”

  “Trust me,” she repeated, “the Global Alliance would never do that. The Global Alliance answers to the people. There’d be an uprising!”

  “That the Global Alliance Defense Force would suppress,” Killian said somberly. He was being discharged, after all. He didn’t have anything to lose. “Where do the Carthenogens fit into all of this?”

  “Besides providing policy over managing the world’s resources, they guide the Global Alliance in resolving conflicts.”

  “From whom does the Global Alliance take its orders, the people or the Carthenogens?”

  Strunk cleared his throat. “Look, we are getting way too far into the weeds with this kind of hypothetical discussion. I can see that you’re a bright young man. But the purpose of this hearing is to determine whether or not you are to remain in the United States military. It seems evident to me that you have: one, trouble with authority; and two, a distrust of the command structure and its mission.”

  Strunk leaned forward, interlacing his fingers, and stared at Killian with a “what-are-we-gonna-do-now” expression. “Be honest with us, Vaughn. More importantly, be honest with yourself. You don’t feel like you fit in, do you?”

  Killian folded his arms across his chest. It was true. He didn’t fit in with moto-cheering in a neutered military. He didn’t like the idea of standing watch at a refugee camp, vulnerable to resistance fighters like himself.

  Gritvicken spoke in honeyed tones. “The core concepts that recruits must embrace are teamwork and understanding one another, Vaughn. If you’d like to go back through the training cycle and work on embracing the things being taught, then we’ll let you. We’re offering you another chance.”

  “It’s either recycle through the program or take the discharge,” Strunk added.

  Killian couldn’t stand the idea of another ten weeks of moto-bullshit. He thought of the autonomy the US had been seeking from the Global Alliance, the effort that had killed his parents. Apparently, the Global Alliance had won.

  The mysterious fighters who’d pulled him out of Bangkok had captured two Global Alliance generals and a Carthenogen minister for a reason—a reason incongruous with everything they just told him. Somebody was fighting back. He wanted to be part of it.

  “No,” Killian said with resignation, “I guess I don’t fit.”

  Rather than risk divulging anything more, he left it at that.

  “Very well then,” the major said somberly. “You are hereby discharged from the US military. Let the record show. You will have six months to find another vocational avenue for your compulsory service. But I have to tell you, if you don’t find a way to fit in with the team concepts elsewhere, you will find yourself in an educational program not of your choosing—or to your liking. I don’t think you want that at all.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand,” Killian said, defeated.

  “I’m sorry it has to come to this, Vaughn,” Gritvicken said, oozing sincerity. “I know that deep in your heart, you’re a good person.”

  Who has killed thirty-three people.

  He dismissed her false praise.

  Major Strunk stood, followed by Gritvicken. Killian stood also.

  “Vaughn, why don’t you take some time to go back home and hang out with your friends over the holidays? Talk with them about this experience and theirs, and see where your calling lies.”

  Killian knew where his calling lay. An obscenity was being perpetrated on the world, and Killian had to fight it. He just didn’t know how to get there.

  “I’m pretty certain that my friends are deceased as well, sir,” he said.

  * * *

  Corporal Lopez led Killian out of the room, past cubicles full of people carrying out their bureaucratic teamwork. No one paid him any mind. He suspected he wasn’t the first, nor the last, to get kicked out of the military due to a low tolerance for bullshit. However, he reminded himself, everyone else in his platoon got a job assignment.

  Corporal Lopez and Killian turned and walked down a long, narrow hall.

  Killian’s stomach churned with a sense of isolation. Part of him was morbidly glad, as he would have been glad if someone suffering from a horrible disease had finally died. Despite his desire to beat the shit out of his entire moto-cheering platoon, getting booted out stung.

  Halfway down the corridor, the corporal stopped and opened an unmarked door with a frosted glass panel.

  Lopez went in and turned on the lights. It was a shabby conference room with no windows, painted in typical drab military style. Coffee cups overflowed from the trash can in the corner, the top ones carefully balanced on the pile so as not to spill their dregs. The room bore the musty smell of general military issue, much like the other offices. The barracks, at least, had the perpetual smell of disinfectant.

  “Have a seat and wait here,” the corporal said.

  Killian stepped in and moved a chair with his foot. He was half-tempted to kick it, to kick everything, to go on a rampage. He suppressed the urge and sat, staring at the uneven tables.

  The corporal left and closed the door behind him.

  Killian was immensely grateful that he wasn’t in handcuffs. Sure, the meeting had been humiliating, but at least he’d be set free. Hell, he thought, they could kick him in the balls a few times and it would still be better than going to prison.

  He folded his arms and laid his forehead on the flimsy metal table. It rocked on uneven legs.

  Yet another emotion swept through him, one that he could recall well. He felt lost. As idiotic as basic training had been, he’d felt like he had a purpose, and that it was leading somewhere. Now he had no idea what to do. He felt like he was staring into a vast desert with no end in sight.

  He didn’t know what living in the United States would be like under the control of the Global Alliance. That made him nervous. What if his sense of not fitting in followed him into the civilian world? Certainly, he would continue to carry the burden of his past. He couldn’t imagine anyone with whom he could share his secret.

  Felicia!

  He wondered, yet again, if she were still alive, still sweet, and still pretty. Maybe he could track her down. She would likely have moved back to Finland, gotten an academic waiver, and gone to college. Even more likely, she had lots of friends and boyfriends—who hadn’t killed thirty-three people. She would never accept him.

  Even though Killian was no longer emaciated and fera
l, he was still a proficient killer. Could he restrain himself in a bar fight? Would he go mad and start hurting civilians? If so, he’d be as monstrous as the soldiers in Bangkok.

  Channeling his lethal skills in the military had seemed like the perfect solution. He had hoped the US would rise up to the domination of the Global Alliance. That idea was dissipating.

  What of his compulsory service?

  Shit!

  More of the same moto-bullshit. The idea of living a normal life felt improbable.

  Coca-Cola was probably even outlawed.

  The door opened behind him, the glass panel shaking slightly inside its wooden frame.

  Killian raised his head and breathed in deeply, getting the sense he had fallen asleep for a minute or two.

  The door behind him closed. Killian looked over his shoulder and saw a man in a trench coat with a suit underneath. The man’s close, bristly haircut suggested he was military, but he lacked a uniform and rank insignia. The man didn’t look at him; his attention was fixed on a handheld electronic device as he walked around the room. He went to each corner and pivoted slightly from left to right, along the walls, then to the four tables clustered at the center of the room. He walked around the tables, stopped, and flipped the device closed and into his trench coat pocket in one move.

  Finally, the man looked up. “Vaughn!” He had a pleasant expression, as if greeting an old friend. “What do you want?”

  “What?”

  The man grabbed a chair, spun it around, and straddled it like a toy horse. Killian recognized this ploy as one of the many barrier-busting techniques designed to let down one’s guard and bare one’s soul.

  “What do you want?” the man repeated.

  Killian felt confused over the strange context. He tossed out a random answer to see what would come next. “To get out of here?”

  “Really?” the man asked.

  Shit!

  Was this another attempt to get him to rejoin his platoon after some serious think time? Was this going to be another humiliating kick in the balls?

  Killian sat back and crossed his arms. “Yes, really.”

  “And why is that?”

  “It’s like Major Strunk said: I don’t fit. I don’t belong here.”

  “Huh.” The man twisted his mouth and looked away. He rolled his eyes back toward Killian. “What is it about you that doesn’t fit with this military?”

  Killian hated being treated like this. “I believed that the military was about waging war, and that we would be trained to fight and succeed at waging war,” he said dryly. “This is apparently incompatible with the new military mission, which seems to be making one another feel good.”

  “I see. You have visions of combat, victory, glory…”

  Asshole!

  “There is no glory in this,” Killian said solemnly.

  There was only fighting to save the people from the beast that consumed them.

  “So, Vaughn, what do you want? What do you really want?”

  “Who the heck are you, anyway?” Killian snapped, angry at the psychological parrying.

  “My name is Burdette, Andrew Burdette.”

  “Are you with the Global Alliance?”

  “Do you have a problem with the Global Alliance?”

  “Not if you’re with the Global Alliance. If you are, then I love the Global Alliance. Power to the people!”

  “No, I am not.”

  “You are not what?” Killian wasn’t going to let him slip through some carefully parsed loophole.

  “I am not with the Global Alliance.”

  “Are you a shrink or any kind of counselor?”

  “No.”

  “Who are you with then, the military?”

  “I used to be.” Burdette picked at something on the table. “Officially, I was in the navy before everything ‘evolved,’ before everything got combined into a new kind of soup generically called ‘the US military.’ Things were very different in my day.”

  “Officially? What about unofficially?”

  “I have some loose connection with the navy, but unofficially, you might say.”

  Killian’s ears perked up. “But you are no longer…Why?”

  Burdette almost winced. “I no longer fit.”

  A pulse of blood surged through Killian’s veins. Still, he maintained his guard and waited for Burdette to say something else.

  “I understand you’re quite the athlete, that you lapped everyone on the O-course several times.”

  Killian shrugged. “Others could have done it, but they were too busy cheering on the feeble.”

  Burdette cracked a smile. “So what do you want to do, cheetah?”

  Killian’s face went hot. “Let me make sure I understand. You’re not in any way part of my chain of command?”

  “Yes.” Burdette nodded, eyebrows up. “That is correct.”

  “Then please don’t ever call me cheetah again.”

  “Hey, no problem!” Burdette backed off, his hands up. “You’re good at what you do, Vaughn. You and I both know it.”

  “Oh? What exactly is it that you think I do so well?”

  “You really didn’t belong there.” Burdette aimed his thumb toward the hall, indicating the general military population.

  “So what are you saying? Did you have me pulled out?”

  Burdette just stared at him without answering.

  “You had me pulled out?” Killian asked, agitated.

  “You didn’t belong there, Vaughn. You are free to go, but I suspect you have another calling.”

  “Who are you?” Killian growled. “If you’re not with the Global Alliance and you’re not with the military, who the heck are you?”

  “Legally, I don’t exist,” Burdette said, holding his right hand out, palm up.

  Killian perked up more. He could feel the blood rushing through his ears.

  “You are free to go home, Vaughn—if you like,” Burdette said in a soothing voice, his face neutral and calm, offering no resistance.

  Killian scowled. “There is no home.”

  “What do you really want, deep down?”

  Killian thought for a long time, deliberating on the consequences of his next words. The veins in his neck and hands throbbed simultaneously.

  Payback, he thought.

  He swallowed dryly and said nothing.

  Finally, Burdette pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and placed it on the table before Killian. On it were three handwritten words: “Resistere ad mortem.”

  He stared, his vision narrowing.

  “Resist to the death,” Killian muttered.

  The crinkle began at Burdette’s eyes and slowly, his conspiratorial grin emerged. “I see you know Latin.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Two months, eleven days later

  Planet Veritas

  TALL JUNGLE TREES STOOD motionless for lack of breeze, silhouetted against the brilliant galaxy. Gentle light reflected by Veritas’s sister planet, Juno, highlighted the trees, beams reaching through to the dense undergrowth. Millions of insects hummed and buzzed, an orchestra of sound.

  Juno’s light also graced the rising cliffs surrounding the oasis in the midst of rugged desert terrain. By day, the air over the rocky desert heated and rose. Cooler air from the forest flowed in to replace it, creating constant motion, a daily dance of fronds against one another.

  But at the apex of night, everything was still.

  A distant hum announced the impending intrusion to the tranquility. Half of the mating calls went quiet while others failed to catch on. The hum became louder, invasive, causing the leaves to tremble and the entire orchestra to fall silent.

  A craft glided up the lush valley, lights blinking, probing, looking for a precise spot. It stopped and hovered
patiently. Millions of insect eyes watched in trepidation.

  A whirring announced two nozzles, which emerged from the craft’s underbelly. Jets of fuel ignited and gushed down to the forest, embroiling it in fire. In mere seconds, brilliant flames leapt back up and licked at the craft from the burning trees. As quickly as they had started, the nozzles slowed to a trickle and retracted.

  The low hum rose in pitch, and the craft gained altitude as it turned. Then, like a vandal, it made its getaway. The orchestra’s serene chirping had been replaced by a melee of roaring combustion.

  US Naval Transport Delaware

  Saturnus Solar System

  March 2, 2075

  It was time to deliver the bad news to Chief Banks.

  Commander Andrew Burdette had chosen this particular time months ago. Still, he felt a knot in his stomach. There were ominous issues back on Earth that required his direct involvement. Yet, the brilliant opportunity posed by this particular mission was too great to delegate to one of the alternate transport commanders.

  Burdette trimmed his prematurely gray hair with a groomer, checking in the back for any missed patches. Not bad for doing it himself, he thought. After a month in hibernation, his bristly hair had gotten shabby. He liked to be polished and professional when delivering serious news.

  He admired his reflection in the tiny mirror of the cramped commanding officer’s quarters. At forty-five, he was fit and trim, but had long since given up on being sexy—if he ever had been. He stowed his groomer, swept his tiny quarters with a small broom, and then showered.

  The two-month voyage to Planet Veritas was miraculous, he mused. His father had been one of the pioneers working to establish colonies on Mars. That trip had also taken two months from Earth. Andrew Burdette had been born on the day his father landed on the Red Planet, never to return.

  In the years since that day, the Carthenogens had bestowed hyper-speed and artificial gravity technologies on Earth, enabling humans to master space flight between solar systems. The human race thrived as a result. Private industry established mining and agricultural outposts, and resort destinations sprang up over the course of just fifteen years. The technological leap, historians claimed, was several times greater than the sixty-six-year span from man’s first flight to landing on the moon.