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

by Nic Plume

  "Because we crashed," Taylor answered, a smile playing around his mouth.

  "Of course we crashed," replied Tonee, "we were shot down." He looked at the pile of rubble beside him. "They knew we were coming." He tried to sit up, but Taylor didn’t budge. Frowning up at him, Tonee lay back down. "They’ll be looking for survivors."

  Taylor nodded slowly.

  "Then, why am I still on my back?"

  "Because we need to make sure you’ll be able to get up without passing out." Taylor scanned his body for visible wounds one more time. "I need you able to move without help."

  "We can do the slow rehab later." Tonee tried to push past Taylor again. "Right now, we need to get—" he broke off, his brown gaze flicking from Taylor, to the pile of rubble, and then to Kaydeen and Salayla. "How much I cost you?"

  "Cost?" Taylor didn’t have to follow Tonee’s gaze to know he had correctly put together the clues around him—the moved debris pile, the single exit, and Taylor’s unhurried demeanor. They had not become and stayed the top-scoring Academy team without being able to quickly and correctly interpret each other’s moods, signals, and actions. But this skill was failing Taylor now, because he had no idea what ‘cost’ Tonee meant.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "How long was I out?"

  Taylor shrugged, "Didn’t time it."

  Looking back at Taylor, Tonee said quietly, "This isn’t funny."

  "I’m not laughing."

  "How long?"

  "Long enough."

  Tonee’s eyes widened, "They’re already here?"

  "Arrived a few minutes ago," Taylor answered. “Some big mouth is barking orders."

  "Are we fighting?"

  "No.”

  "Why?"

  "Because we’re in no shape to fight, have no weapons to fight with, other than our sidearms, and are inside a highly volatile tinderbox with only one exit."

  "So, we’re just going to give up?"

  "No," Taylor scoffed, "we’re going to do whatever it takes to survive, as per SERE protocols." He jumped off the chair and grabbed Tonee’s hand. "Let’s get you on your feet."

  Once Tonee was steady, Taylor released his grasp to step back, but Tonee’s vice-like grip pulled him closer.

  "You should’ve gotten out."

  "And leave you behind?" Taylor frowned. "I don’t think so."

  Tonee’s eyes took on intensity as he gazed at the debris pile beside them.

  "It took too long to dig me out. Because of me, you missed your chance to escape. You shouldn’t have allowed that to happen."

  Tonee’s words hit Taylor like a frozen sledgehammer, filling him with an ice-cold, almost physical, pain. He shoved it down, forcing it into a corner of his conscious, and poured heat onto it until the cold dread burst.

  Only inches from Tonee’s face, his voice turned quiet and precise, his eyes cold. "We are a team. We live as a team. We fight as a team. And we will die as a team, if necessary. But we will never leave a teammate behind. Whatever comes, we will go through it as a team."

  A sensation in his neck brought him to a sudden stop. Like dipping into a pool of water on a hot summer day, it spread slowly through his body, filling him with a cooling, calming comfort as alien and strange as it was familiar and safe—and utterly Salayla. He could feel her, smell her, taste her with every part of his body, inside and out, and knew instantly that he hated this sensation as much as he loved it.

  Behind him, Salayla said quietly, "Calm yourself." Inside, he felt as if she screamed every word into his very being, "This is not a time or place for anger."

  "Anger?" With his face still only inches from Taylor’s, Tonee looked at Salayla, "He looked intense; felt, first ice-cold, then scalding hot; and had me locked down—still does—but he didn’t seem angry."

  Taylor released Tonee’s wrist and shirt. He hadn’t even realized he had grabbed them. "I wasn’t angry."

  He felt Salayla’s disagreement slam into every fiber of his being, as if all the oxygen was sucked out at once. Unable to breathe, Taylor’s knees weakened, and he struggled to remain upright and coherent. "What…are you…doing?"

  Her regret and apology flashed through their contact as quickly as her disapproval had. He liked them much better.

  "I’m Sharing your pain, your anger."

  My anger? He could’ve sworn that the anger, if that was what had just ripped through him, had originated with her, not him; but he didn’t argue the point, he didn’t need a repeat demonstration. "I didn’t know you could do that."

  "It is a more intimate Reading, usually reserved for Mates," she explained. "Anger and pain might not have been the correct terms to use, but they are the best human expressions to describe the manifestations I sensed."

  He wanted her to elaborate, but a thud, followed by a surprised yelp, brought their discussion to an abrupt halt.

  "Whatever happens, don’t fight them," Taylor instructed as he slid past Salayla and moved around the debris pile. Her astonishment at the ease with which he pushed her out of his mind and slipped from her grasp surprised him. His steps faltered.

  He saw the soldier crouched behind a piece of debris a few feet past the opening at the same time the man’s targeting laser lit up his chest. Cursing himself for letting Salayla’s reaction distract him, Taylor spread his arms to his side, palms facing forward, and froze. He hoped his footing was as stable as it looked.

  The soldier didn’t move or speak and neither did his weapon, but others with him did. Taylor picked out four distinct voices, two right outside and two farther away, or maybe one farther away and one coming through a comm unit—it had a clanky sound to it. He didn’t understand what was said, couldn’t even identify the language or which region it came from, and he didn’t dare turn to check with Salayla, their language expert.

  He waited. It didn’t take long. More voices approached, some sounded agitated, and then the opening darkened as someone ducked through. Taylor noted the targeting laser never wavered from his chest.

  The man—his crumpled uniform’s insignia identified him as Juvak but didn’t give a rank, position, or unit—was in his late thirties and rough looking, as if he partied too hard and lost too many fights. Yet, his posture stated he won more fights than he lost and his mannerisms hinted at a highly educated background. His olive skin was a sharp contrast to his light-colored hair. Taylor had no idea what to make of him. The man’s appearance contradicted his presence to the core.

  The L-Slugger he casually aimed at the ground as he scanned the wrecked cabin was an older model fixed-rate laser pulse rifle that discharged a powerful, and deadly, projectile-like burst of energy. A targeting laser built into its trigger-control improved its accuracy, but made careless handlers accident-prone. If the weapon pointed at him was the same, Taylor hoped the gunman had steady fingers and didn’t get a cramp.

  Juvak’s eyes took in the scene and then flicked to the others momentarily before settling on Taylor with a smile as if happy to see him.

  "Look who has returned,” he said in excellent Trade, as if discussing merchandise with his favorite customer.

  Taylor frowned. Traverse and their mercenaries were not usually fluent in the commerce language of the Free Galaxy. Juvak’s smile grew wider, though now it reminded Taylor of a back-alley drug dealer watching a first-time customer take a sample of his special concoction.

  "And the boy brought new friends." His facial expression iced as he paused. "Follow instructions, and we’ll be fine."

  Taylor knew Juvak was goading him, leading him on, feeling him out. It was Battlefield Psychology 101, to unbalance and take control. But even knowing what it was and how it worked, didn’t help him shake its effect. He felt as outmatched as he had been the first time he had faced the close-combat instructor on the mat. Back then, his stubborn refusal to quit, to cede the fight and leave the mat, had earned him a grudge from a trainer and a trip to the med ward. Now, it could cost him much more. But, like then, backing dow
n or giving anything less than his best wasn’t an option. It would only make him weak and his teammates into targets. He’d simply have to deal with whatever came their way.

  Taylor straightened, met Juvak’s gaze, and nodded. The time to evade and escape was past, and resisting was not yet an option. That left only one objective of the SERE protocol—the most important one—for his team to survive.

  "Good," his smile friendly again, Juvak motioned with his weapon. “Drop your kit and then head out one at a time." He pointed at Taylor. "You first."

  Taylor released his battle harness and, after disconnecting the armor actuators on his limbs and around his neck with a quick twist of the wrist, added the separate pieces and his helmet to the debris pile by his feet. As he did so, he tempted the imaginary hole already burning into his chest to glance at his teammates and, using the sign language they had learned at Basic and later refined for their use, reiterated his earlier instruction. He wasn’t sure if Juvak, whose gaze was locked on him, recognized or understood his signal but seeing his expression unchanged, thought he might not have. He was wrong.

  As he moved forward, he sensed Juvak’s arm twitch an instant before the rifle slammed into the side of his knee. It was such a small, quick movement, he wouldn’t have been able to dodge it if he had tried. As it was, he gasped in pain and went to his knees. The targeting laser never wavered from his chest.

  Behind him, Tonee, in the process of lowering his own kit, started forward, but stopped before taking a step. Taylor froze. He didn’t have to look to know Tonee was ready to pounce, to smash that maggot in front of them. The smallest sign or even a wrong move and he would explode into motion with a speed most people didn’t expect a man his size to be capable of.

  Juvak did. An expectant smirk played with the corners of his mouth as the strange man eyeballed them. He knew exactly what Tonee, or any of them for that matter, was capable of. And he was ready to take him down—possibly permanently.

  Juvak stepped beside Taylor and leaned down. "I don’t think your friend got your message."

  But his gaze was on Tonee, his eyes boring into him, daring him to move, to so much as twitch a muscle. Taylor willed his friend to see the situation for what it was—a non-contest he could neither win nor lose, because either would be detrimental. He was outmatched. They all were. And this battle of wills was not aimed to test Tonee’s resolve, but Taylor’s. It was a thought, a fact, as clear and true as the sharp pain shooting up and down Taylor’s leg.

  "Got it,” Taylor said, as much to Tonee as Juvak.

  It broke the spell.

  Juvak’s forehead twitched. Respect or contempt? Taylor wondered. The man held Tonee’s gaze a moment longer and then stepped back.

  Taylor knew the blow was coming before it did. One last move to demonstrate where the base of power lay—for now. Sharp pain exploded across his lower cheek as his blood splattered across the debris, but all he could think of was for Tonee to not take the bait. He didn’t. He held his peace and watched as if memorizing every instant of it.

  Taylor swallowed the coppery fluid pooling in his mouth and picked himself up. His knee throbbed as he straightened it, but he refused to let the pain reach his expression. He wouldn’t give Juvak the satisfaction. Plus, he couldn’t allow it to influence his teammates’ actions. They would each have to fight an uphill battle already, no reason to add to it. Breathing through the sharp pain shooting up and down his leg with each twisting step, he picked his way around oozing puddles and unstable debris. As he approached, he saw that his earlier approximation of the opening’s location had been correct. The top part of the cockpit hatch was still visible above, but the ragged inward-blossoming edges of the slightly taller than wide hole gave him the disturbing impression that, if he turned around, he would find a pilot’s chair embedded in the opposite bulkhead.

  He banished the unpleasant image from his mind and pressed on. Why worry about the dead when there were still living to take care of? The closer he drew to the outside, the more he realized how toxic the air around his team was. No wonder Juvak had taken only a few steps into the wreck.

  The combat boots he saw on each side of the opening were his first hint that he wouldn’t be allowed to walk of his own accord, the hand grabbing his neck, his second. After that, everything happened so fast, he was barely able to keep his wits about him and his feet below him.

  Pulled from the hole and then shoved forward, he caught his balance long enough on the edge of a broken piece of bulkhead to realize that the rifleman crouched below him was ignoring him. The man didn’t even flinch when a hard kick propelled Taylor over his head and onto a teetering slab of cockpit control panel. Landing in a partial crouch, his hand shot out for balance at the same time as the acrid stench of still smoldering electrical circuits bombarded his senses. His hand was faster. Grabbing a handful of wires, he immediately felt the stinging burn of electricity course through his skin.

  His resulting hiss drew a snicker from his right. He looked up in time to see the butt of a rifle coming his way and started to dodge, but remembering his own instructions, he turned his shoulder into it instead. It didn’t hurt, at least not much. The two meaty fists meeting his chest and slamming him into a tangle of cables and rods did, though. He wasn’t sure what hurt worse: his front, his back, or everything in between. He didn’t have the time to contemplate the question since he was immediately hauled to his feet. Still fighting to get air back into his lungs as he stumbled along, Taylor tripped over a sharp, jutting piece of metal that would’ve cut deeply into his ankle had his boot not been in the way, and barely caught himself before his face slammed into the jagged end of a broken piece of bulkhead. Yet to take a full breath, he was grabbed again and shoved down the embankment of the furrow the wreck had carved. His knee gave out and he landed face-first in the dirt a few meters from the Tinareean transport.

  Moments later, Salayla landed beside him. He chanced a glance at her, but the butt of a rifle slammed into his neck and shoved his face back into the ground before he could get a good look. The weapon’s owner leaned over him, increasing the pressure painfully. Taylor didn’t understand the barked orders coming from the direction of the transport, but was happy to feel the soldier push off him. His relief turned to dread when the snickering man aimed the gun’s barrel at his face and slowly squeezed the trigger, causing the red targeting laser to light up his cheek. Another barked order, this one from Juvak, caused the soldier to pull up the barrel right as the weapon discharged.

  The bolt hit the ground inches from Taylor’s face. The dirt absorbed it instantly. Had it hit rock, he would have felt much more than the tingle of intense heat passing by. He squeezed his eyes shut, ignored the soldier’s laugh and obvious snide remarks, and concentrated on getting his racing heart back under control.

  After a short but vocal argument, two soldiers grabbed his arms and dragged him toward the transport. By the time he had his feet under him to walk, they stopped in front of a pudgy middle-aged officer, whose insignia identified him as the commander of this group.

  The officer studied him, nodded, and gave an order. A third soldier stepped up and helped the first two strip him of all insignia and uniform pieces identifying him as an Intergal trooper. They pulled him back to his feet for another inspection. Satisfied, the officer nodded and turned away. The soldiers bound Taylor’s wrists, pulled a cloth sack over his head, and tightened its cord around his throat.

  Blind and barely able to breathe, Taylor was unable to cushion his fall when the soldiers dragged him up the transport’s ramp and threw him in. Landing hard, he groaned in pain and reached for the cord around his neck, but his wrists were pulled above his head before he could touch it. He tried to pull free, but the constant battering and lack of oxygen left him too weak to do more than slow the motion. Nevertheless, even this minute resistance was immediately repaid with a blow to his side. Taylor screamed and curled up, jerking his wrists free as he did so. His tormentor grabbed his shirt a
nd pants, picked him up, and slammed him onto his back. Out of air, Taylor lay were he landed and groaned…

  4

  Puzzle Pieces

  After signing off with Commander Richards, S9 Commander Robert Teak had accessed a ship terminal to locate S3 Technician Torrents. The ship’s communications system tracked everybody’s location, though Robert would not be surprised to find that Torrents had hacked into his comm’s transponder and changed or turned off its signal.

  He hadn’t.

  It took him a while to cross the ship, but Robert found him exactly where his comm signal said he was—in the temporary quarters he had been assigned for the duration of this mission. The slicer was busy working on his terminal, his personal comm silently flashing the contact alert beside him. He had clearly gotten the notification; the audible alert could not be turned off until it was acknowledged—unless, of course, Torrents had hacked it.

  "The comm signals aren’t reaching Tinaree," Torrents said without so much as a greeting or acknowledgement of the superior officer’s arrival. "So, either they’re blocked ground-side, or the relays are out." He didn’t give Robert a chance to reply. "I’d prefer a problem with the relays, ’cause if it’s ground-side, then we’ve been hacked and the guys down there are in for it."

  He turned with his last words and, remembering protocol, added a quick "Sir" and jumped to attention.

  Sharp, intelligent brown eyes framed by curly ash blonde hair barely within regulations watched as Robert’s studying gaze ran over his disheveled uniform, which looked like it had been stored while crumpled into a ball. Torrents’ skinny frame didn’t help the matter, and his lack of concern to do more than meet regulations didn’t, either. No wonder he kept getting flagged. Military discipline wasn’t in his blood, though looking at his pedigree, it should have been. Tenth generation Intergal—his family had served pretty much from the day the Intergalactic Freedom Defense Force was founded. His grandfather had been a retired Senior Force Commander. Something went wrong in the boy’s track and maybe someday Robert would have the time to figure out what it was. But for now, he had more urgent concerns.