Tinaree: Trial By Inferno (Shadows Of Peace Book 1)

by Nic Plume

  Tinaree - Trial By Inferno

  Nic Plume

  Contents

  Jaded

  1. Attack

  2. Chaos

  3. Wreck

  4. Puzzle Pieces

  5. Aftermath

  6. Darkness

  7. Encounters

  8. Prospects

  9. Intel

  10. New Normal

  11. Friendship

  12. Visitor

  13. Freedom

  14. Rest

  15. Conflict

  16. Tuscoony

  17. Revelations

  18. The Fields

  19. Mannahe

  20. Dr. Mitalius

  21. Complications

  22. Rendezvous

  23. Retreat

  24. Last Stand

  25. Rescue

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2020 Nic Plume

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced

  in any format without the written permission from the author.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-7351536-0-5

  Print ISBN: 978-1-7351536-1-2

  Cover Designed by Ryan Schwarz

  at www.thecoverdesigner.com

  To Marty

  For your never-ending support and the amazing life you have given me. I am looking forward to many more years of adventure and exploring.

  Jaded

  Fun. Such a simple word, with such a powerful meaning. When was the last time I had fun? I don’t remember. Of course I do. I can’t forget. It’s burned into my mind, as are all the things that weren’t fun. As are the people: Salayla and Tonee; Ash, Nick, and Thompson; Commander Richards and Teak; and Taylor…our nucleus, the reason our team worked so well…and the reason it imploded. But, I digress. The dark abyss I see whenever I think of him is the end of this history, not the beginning.

  It used to be different. It used to be fun. The Team used to be my life. The best life I could imagine. When did it change? When did it turn into this hellhole? I don’t know. And there lies my conundrum: I should know, because I never forget.

  "A’Tourie."

  The XO’s voice grates across the hangar. He is short, stubby, and hard to pick out in the sea of people and machines scattered around the ships and vehicles waiting to be used or maintained. A clot of maintenance officers parts, allowing me a clear view of the frown he always wears when he identifies one of his flock in need of guidance or work—usually the former leading to the latter. Our gazes meet and his frown deepens. He doesn’t like me, hasn’t liked me since I joined the Unit a few weeks ago. I don’t know if it’s because he’s not sure how to incorporate a Special Forces Commando-Medic into his Starfighter Unit or if he doesn’t consider me worth the effort. Probably the latter. Who’s interested in taking in broken goods?—His words, not mine.

  I guess he’s right, the original charges did read, ‘Attempted murder of commanding officer.’ Although they were downgraded to ‘Assault,’ I’m not sure I would’ve stopped had Tonee and Ash not dragged me off Taylor. There I go, stepping to that abyssal edge again.

  "A’Tourie, get your ass over here." The XO’s voice deepens, trying to sound tough. He starts my way. I guess I’m supposed to be afraid of the consequences. What’s he going to do, throw me back into the brig? Of course, I doubt he’d lay a hand on me, probably afraid I’d break it.

  "I got her." Taft’s voice startles me. I hadn’t even heard him approach.

  The XO slows but doesn’t stop. His eyes scan the area as if verifying available reinforcements.

  I turn around. Unit Commander John Taft stands a few paces away—easily within reach—which explains why the XO went tactical. We keep going like this and the poor guy will be paranoid before long.

  "You lost?" Taft’s gaze lingers on me only a second before looking past my shoulder. The XO’s steps slow further, but are as loud as ever.

  "No." I pause, then add, "Sir,” when Taft raises his eyebrows.

  He steps closer—within arms reach now—another step, and his breath brushes my cheek. Slow and smooth.

  "Protocol, Kay, remember the protocol."

  The chasm is back with a fury. Nobody calls me ‘Kay’—nobody, except Taylor.

  My fist tightens, but he’s too close. I’d have to step back. I won’t back up, never again. I look up. He’s not much taller than me, maybe Salayla’s height, or Ash’s. His hair is cut short, neatly trimmed and a dark enough brown to be nearly as black as Taylor’s. But his eyes, a gunmetal gray, are nothing like Taylor’s penetrating green gaze. Our faces are close enough my eyes nearly cross to focus on him. But I do focus, on John Taft—not Taylor—my new commanding officer.

  I exhale; didn’t even realize I was holding my breath. He smiles, ever so slightly. He knew exactly what he was doing, and how I would react. Asshole. Before I can give him my opinion, he steps past me, his shoulder brushing against mine.

  Somehow, I don’t think he’s afraid of me breaking his hand.

  Taft and the XO talk quietly. I’m close enough to listen, but I don’t. The XO is obviously unhappy with what Taft tells him, but doesn’t argue. He nods, then turns to find somebody else in need of guidance and work. It doesn’t take him long.

  Taft turns to me. "What was that all about?"

  "Excuse me?"

  He nods toward the fighter the XO disappeared behind. "You and Measow."

  "I didn’t do anything."

  "That’s my point." He walks past me but after a few steps turns around. "You coming?"

  Taft waits for me to catch up. We walk across the hangar, down a passageway, and turn into his office. It’s spartan: a desk with three chairs, a shelf with printed manuals and books, a drink dispenser, and a weapons locker. If that doesn’t raise questions, I don’t know what would. Who still reads printed materials? And what unit commander keeps his arms in his office? Is Taft that paranoid, or that prepared? He points toward one of the chairs positioned in front of his desk and settles into the larger, overstuffed one behind it.

  "Start."

  I don’t have to ask what. We had this discussion before. And I know the results will be the same.

  Why he wants to record the history of my team, I have no clue. The team no longer exists. Though I do understand why he requires that I do it, other than that I am the only team member under his direct command. I have a perfect memory. A gift—a curse—Mother Dinai bestowed on me along with the gifts common to my people.

  I am a Child of Dinai. Humans call us an offshoot, near-human, an accident in evolution. There was no accident. Mother Dinai knew exactly what she was doing when she welcomed humans to her lush embrace, allowed them to settle on her—a fertile, seemingly unclaimed planet—and then took them as her own and molded them into her perfect children. I may look human. But I am not. My physiological and psychological makeup is different.

  "Why?" I pause to gauge his reaction. "You could simply read the files."

  Intense gray eyes meet mine. Other unit commanders might have reprimanded my audacity to question their orders. But not John Taft. He merely looks at me, studying, watching.

  "The record only shows raw data and situation-specific logs tilted toward the viewpoint of the person who filed it. Your report will account for the dynamic nature of the circumstances as the events unfolded, from the viewpoint of someone who lived through all of them."

  Long, complicated jargon to say he wants a firsthand account of what happened. "You were there for a while."

  He flinches—bad memories, or regret?

  "For a short while." His eyes defocus int
o the past. "In the scheme of things, not long enough to make a difference." He pauses, then quietly adds, "Or to learn enough."

  I catch a glimpse of deeply buried pain, regret, and…longing? What the fuck? And then his steel gaze slams down again. His vulnerability is gone, and I have no clue what I just saw. He looks at me, bouncing the ball into my court without saying a word. Fine, let’s move on, then.

  "They will not accept an amendment to the official record by someone like me."

  "Like you?" He tilts his head and raises his eyebrow. "Din don’t have psychotic episodes or become unbalanced." So, he did read at least part of the files.

  "Are you saying I’m not Din, or I’m not unbalanced?"

  The corner of his lip twitches. "Neither." He smiles. "Now stop stalling."

  He’s right. I don’t want to go on this ride again. The first time was bad enough. But then, nobody has ever said life will be easy, or fun—I never expected it to be this hard and painful, though.

  I take a breath and settle in. "Where do you want me to start?"

  "With your first mission," he replies without hesitation. "At Tinaree."

  Tinaree – Our trial by inferno.

  1

  Attack

  Five years earlier

  The twelve members of 315th SF Unit’s First Squad were seated in pairs, three on each side of the cabin, facing their teammates across low storage bins, tied down equipment, and enough deck space to gear up and maneuver with ease. Personal gear was stored beside each seat and easily accessible with a few handgrips, well ingrained with countless hours of simulation runs.

  Most of the squad were veterans of numerous missions, their equipment well broken in and adapted to personal style and preference. Some talked and joked, others meditated or checked their gear, and one even slept. But, with all the different activities going on, the veterans had one thing in common: they seemed relaxed, used to the lull of mission insertion. Mark Taylor felt rigid and nervous in comparison. Chest tight, heart racing, he had to keep reminding himself to breathe deep and slow, not hyperventilate.

  "Your challenge will not be incorporating into your unit or being accepted by your squad mates," the Academy trainer had said a few months before, "No, your first real challenge will be to quickly strike the correct balance between calm preparedness and excited expectations.

  "Too much nonchalance will kill you as quickly as tense anxiety. And you don’t want to return from your first mission in a body bag, or on a stretcher, taken down by your team because you became a liability."

  At the time, Taylor had thought neither would be a problem for him. He still didn’t, it would simply take a bit more work than he had expected.

  "They’re not as calm and collected as they seem."

  Kaydeen A’Tourie spoke softly, her voice easily carrying across the armrests between them.

  "They merely have more practice hiding it."

  Just like Kay to know what’s on my mind. Something she and Sal perfected over the last three years. But I guess that’s the cost of living and training with Din.

  Taylor met Kaydeen’s hazel eyes. She was his height, with a similar athletic build, but since she was female, he usually got the flak for being the smallest on their team, and within the unit for that matter. He didn’t care. His speed and agility easily made up for whatever other people thought he lacked.

  "If this was no big deal, they wouldn’t be so ritualistic in their preparations."

  He followed her gaze across the troop bay. Botch, the squad’s medic, was reading a small book while fondling the medallion hanging from the chain around his neck. He had pulled both from an ornate box he kept in one of his bunk’s compartments. It had been one of the most involved rituals Taylor had seen so far. Botch set the box on the deck and spread a cloth in front of it. He then knelt on the cloth, mumbled some words in a language Taylor didn’t recognize, and touched his forehead to the box. The rest of the squad quieted but otherwise ignored him. Botch repeated the process three times and then opened the box. While continuing to mumble, he slid the chain over his head and stowed the book in his breast pocket. Folding the cloth carefully, he placed it inside the box and then returned the box to its compartment. As soon as the compartment closed, the bay returned to its usual noise level.

  Botch’s had been the longest ritual, but he wasn’t the only one with a good luck charm. Mitwa, the squad’s sniper, had a plasma slug hanging around his neck. Story went that he had been shot with it on his third mission. Lucky him, it had malfunctioned and not discharged its deadly contents into his bicep or he would have lost the arm. Dieran had a piece of cloth in his pocket; Tooley, a small figurine; and Hix, a well-worn picture. Taylor had not heard the stories about those, yet. Almost half of the unit had a charm they carried into combat. It was common practice and readily overlooked by commanders.

  "Luck is for people lacking skills."

  His mother’s words rang in his ears as his mind drifted to the last time he’d heard her use them. She had responded to the words an Intergal officer at the Academy Recruiting Station had used to inform parents and recruits that it was time to say good-bye. Unperturbed by the stares her statement had received, Skye Taylor had followed up with, "If my son needs luck, I have failed to properly prepare him." When the signal to board the shuttle had sounded moments later, she had hugged him, kissed his forehead, told him, "You will be the best, the top of the class, and graduate with honors. I expect nothing less," and walked away without looking back.

  He had just turned sixteen and never been without her for more than a few hours.

  To others, she might have seemed callous, but he knew better. For as long as he could remember, his goal had been to join the Intergalactic Freedom Defense Force, IFDF, or Intergal for short, in their fight to stop the Traverse. A goal his mother had encouraged and supported whole-heartedly. By the time he had arrived for his Academy Entrance Exams, his survival and combat skills far surpassed the average sixteen-year-old recruit. He had never asked where his mother had acquired them. It hadn’t been his place. She had given him all her love, her time, her knowledge, and in the end, her life. The moment he had stepped onto the Academy shuttle’s ramp that day four years ago, he had known he wouldn’t see her again. And as vague, or as accurate, as his hunches and feelings were at times, he had learned a long time ago that they were never wrong.

  "Hey," A light touch on his forearm snapped him back to the present. "You with us?" Kaydeen studied him intently.

  "I’m right here."

  "Now you are, but a moment ago, you were with your mother."

  And they said Din needed to touch to read your thoughts and feelings. He knew that Din required contact, more specifically bare hand to neck contact, to use their ‘Gifts.’ It was the largest misconception humans had about their ancestral cousins, and one of the reasons Din usually preferred to blend in and not announce themselves.

  "I lost her four years ago."

  "You know what I mean."

  He did. As painful as that shuttle trip to the Academy had been, he was glad he had four years to get used to the thought. So, when the notification of her death had finally come, it had not totally shredded him. Though it had still been painful to hear she had killed herself the day he graduated, the day she had considered her life’s work complete.

  "Are you saying, you weren’t thinking about her?"

  "No."

  "Mark…"

  First name…she’s going deep.

  He looked at her. "Kay, I’m fine. I had four years to get used to the thought. So, I’ll be fine."

  Four years. The first had been easy. The schedule at the Basic Academy, where recruits learned to be soldiers, had kept him too busy and exhausted to let his mind wander too far. After that, Kay, Sal, and Tonee had been there.

  "You know a Reading can ease—"

  Taylor stopped her words with a raised finger. "Sal put you up to this?"

  "Salayla?" Kaydeen looked from Taylor to Salayla
K’Kaya, who sat across the cabin with Anthony Patonee, their fourth teammate, and back. "Why would she—”

  "Because she’s been trying to dig that tidbit out of me since she found out about it."

  "Grief and sorrow are not a tidbit," Kaydeen bristled at his choice of words, "and Salayla wasn’t trying to dig up anything. She wants to help ease your pain. The ache I know is in there." She would have poked his chest for emphasis, but with the crash webbing keeping her in her seat, she opted to bring her fist to her chest instead.

  "Others might believe the hard shell you put around you, but I know better, and so does she."

  "Do you, now?" He could almost see her every hair stand on end at the mere suggestion of his words.

  "Of course. Three years of sleeping, eating, and training together tends to bring people closer."

  Especially if two are Din, he thought but did not say.

  "Not that I needed three years to figure you out…" She broke off, closed her eyes, and shook her head, smiling.

  Read my mind again. He thought he had her going, nicely wound up and way off her mark. He should’ve known better. She was the empath, after all.

  All calm indulgence, her eyes met his again. "And who says I would share your tidbits with Salayla?"

  "Because you two have been sharing each other’s secrets since you were little."

  "You’ve been listening to our conversations?"

  "As you said, three years of living, eating, and training together doesn’t afford much privacy."