The Valiant (Star Legend Book 1)

by J. J. Green

  A few minutes later, he was downstairs and outside the assembly room, which hummed with conversation and anticipation of the momentous discussions about to take place. The BA had suffered a serious blow in the loss of its historic homeland, and something had to be done to win it back. Also, the AP was attacking Australia, sovereign state of Oceania, probably hungry for the uranium mines. Though the mines had been shut down decades ago due to falling interest in nuclear energy, they remained full of the precious ore. Meanwhile, after finding itself blocked by the boundary of the Great Atlantic to the west, the EAC was creeping steadily southward, threatening to take Gibraltar and with it control of the Strait.

  But more than the discussions on how to reverse the tide of the BA’s fortunes, everyone was waiting for something else to happen, something even more significant than the debate on the future of the Britannic Alliance.

  Queen Alice hadn’t been seen in public for two years and three months, one week, and five days—Hans had been counting. Rumors of her illness, senility, and even undisclosed death had run rife. He knew the detail of many of the rumors because he’d been responsible for many of them. People loved to gossip, and he loved to give them things to gossip about, especially when it came to Her Majesty.

  She was scheduled to attend the council in her usual non-participatory capacity. Hans had no doubt she would read out the speech Parliament had written for her, and then she would affect polite interest in the proceedings until she could gracefully retire. But her presence would achieve the sense of unity and common purpose intended.

  Hans wondered how much the Prime Minister and the Queen’s advisers had implored her to attend the event. The old woman had obviously lost interest and enthusiasm for public life many years ago, but somehow she’d been persuaded to hang on and not abdicate, giving her successor time to grow to manhood. A man made a much better figurehead to a failing monarchy than a young boy.

  Pausing at the entrance to the assembly room, Hans surveyed the tiered seating around the walls of the oval chamber. The sections designated to the attending groups stood out, even without the benefit of signage.

  The armed forces occupied a quarter of the available space, the admirals, generals, air marshals, and lower ranking officers, dignified in their dress uniforms. A few generations previously, it would have been unthinkable to invite such a large number of military personnel to a general meeting, but now all and sundry seemed to have influence in political affairs.

  Ministers of Parliament, including the Cabinet and the Prime Minister himself, were all dressed formally, similar to Hans. Their somber suits took up another significant chunk of the room. Media reps in more fashionable gear ranged around the upper gallery, captains of industry had been allotted a portion of the seats, and non-governmental organizations a smaller portion. Out of SIS, only he and his immediate subordinates were attending.

  Had his officers desired to be present—he had no doubt they did not—the idea was out of the question. Their anonymity was paramount, superseding their right to participate in debates or decision making.

  Hans walked sedately across the floor of the chamber and climbed the steps that led to his organization’s section.

  The meeting was about to begin.

  “Mr. Jonte, you barely made it,” said his secretary as he took the seat beside her.

  “And yet...I did!” he replied pleasantly.

  He liked Josephine. She wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, and that suited him perfectly. She never bothered him with awkward questions about his activities, only doing exactly as she was told.

  Soft chimes began to echo through the chattering, growing gradually louder. The voices quietened down, and after five more resounding chimes, they stopped.

  The chamber was silent.

  Parliament’s Speaker was acting as chairperson. She stood up, alone in her box, wearing her traditional black gown.

  “Ministers, ladies, and gentlemen, welcome to this seven hundred and eighth meeting of the Britannic General Council.” She continued with some more platitudes, and then said, “We have a long afternoon ahead of us with many urgent matters to address. Therefore, without any further ado, I would like to welcome to our assembly, Her Majesty Alice the Second, Queen of the Britannic Isles and her Realms and Territories, Head of the Commonwealth, Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, and Mother of her Nations.”

  Hans fidgeted in his seat and suppressed a yawn.

  Next to the Speaker’s box, a larger one protruded from the wall. It was empty, but as soon as the introduction was over, the curtains at the rear of the box drew apart, and an old lady in a jewel-encrusted ceremonial dress and wearing a small tiara stepped into the space.

  All the attendees, including Hans, rose to their feet and bowed.

  As he lifted his head, Queen Alice raised a frail hand to give her usual wave, cleared her throat, and began to speak. Hans sat down.

  The woman’s quiet, tremulous tone meant that, despite electronic amplification, he could barely make out what she was saying. He didn’t think he was alone in that either, yet all the attendees sat motionless, as if hanging on to her every word.

  Hans’s attention wandered.

  Tall, slim windows divided the seating sections, giving views of a beach and crashing ocean waves on one side of the hotel, and deep green vegetation on the other. He watched the waves, his mind traveling along the hidden, twisted paths of his machinations, as he waited for the Queen to finish.

  It didn’t matter what the elderly lady said. The words had been placed in her mouth by the people of the Establishment, an entity whose primary purpose was to maintain its ancient grip on executive power. Its members wanted everything to go on as it had for thousands of years. They wanted an impotent figurehead; someone who would stand in front of the shadowy elite who controlled everything and viewed that control as an ancestral right, merited, deserved, and inviolable.

  But things were about to change.

  The Queen had no direct heir, and though the line of succession to her late nephew’s son was clear, the distance of the relationship would introduce doubt and fragility to the entire question of monarchy, in Hans’s estimation. He was banking on it, in fact. Now that Alice II’s life was drawing to a close, it was the perfect time to bring all his efforts of the previous few years to bear fruit.

  It was time for the Britannic Alliance to become a Republic.

  It would take back the lands it had lost, defeat the EAC, and banish that madman, Ua Talman, before he drained the Earth of her remaining precious resources. The BA was about to be born again, in a different and better form.

  If blood had to be shed for that to happen, so be it. It was only through pain, labor, and strife that new life came into the world, and the same was true of new systems of government.

  Josephine tapped his elbow, retrieving Hans from his reverie. He saw that the Queen had left her box, and the meeting was about to begin.

  The Prime Minister rose. “Firstly, may I say what a delight it is to see Her Majesty here today, and in such good health.”

  Hans rolled his eyes.

  The Prime Minister fired off a few more platitudes, and then handed over to an under-secretary to give a report on the state of the Alliance.

  All the woman said was common knowledge. The Britannic Isles remained under EAC control, along with much of Europe and Asia, excepting India and Pakistan, and the Antarctic Project continued to steadily strip the resources of many countries. Much of Brazil was infiltrated by the AP’s mining companies, which were ransacking the Amazon Forest for bauxite. Non-BA countries, including the Middle East and the States, were maintaining their independent, neutral positions. Hans’s attention wandered again. He had a far better understanding of the state of things than the overview the under-secretary was giving.

  She finished speaking and sat down.

  At the same time, the Prime Minister gave a small cough and took the podium. He gripped the sides of the lectern and glanced dow
nward at his prompt screen, preparing to begin his speech.

  Hans expected the PM to express solidarity with BA nations that had fallen, followed by assurances that everything possible was being done to free them. The man would probably then go on to praise the efforts of the military and auxiliary services, and state his confidence that the future of the BA was rosy, her foes would be vanquished, and she would eventually return to her former days of glory.

  That was what Hans was expecting.

  But just as the PM opened his mouth to speak, a distinct, piercing whine came from overhead. Along with the rest of the attendees, Hans looked upward, puzzled. He saw the chamber’s elegantly decorated wooden ceiling, but the noise was coming from outside the building, and it was getting louder.

  Suddenly, someone among the military ranks screamed, “Get down!”

  Then the ceiling exploded.

  Hans’s eardrums burst.

  He had a brief impression of shattered, fiery splinters raining down and thick smoke blooming, and that was all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Wright unfastened the buttons on his shirt, took it off, and pushed it into the laundry chute. Then he took off his pants, folded them neatly, and placed them on the single chair in his cabin. He yawned and stretched his arms and back. He’d just finished a double shift, covering for Colbourn as well as doing his own work, and he was looking forward to at least six solid hours of blissful slumber. The brigadier was due back in a couple of days, and he thought he was doing a reasonable job of keeping the Valiant shipshape and ticking along while she was away.

  He padded into his tiny shower room and completed his bedtime routine before returning to the main area of his cabin and getting into bed. He thumped his pillow to fluff it up, and then buried his head in the soft cushion. After exhaling heavily, he said, “Lights, off.”

  The room instantly plunged into darkness. He closed his eyes, gave a soft smile, and his body entirely relaxed. As he banished the cares of the day from his mind, sweet sleep overtook him.

  “Major.”

  “Ughhh...” Wright opened his eyes.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, but...”

  “Yes, corporal?”

  “There’s fighting in the quarters, sir, and Captain Tyler’s having trouble getting it under control. I thought maybe you’d—”

  “I’m on my way.” He threw off his covers and got up. Cursing to himself, he quickly put on a fresh shirt, his pants and boots, and then stomped out into the passageway.

  Whoever was responsible for waking him up was going to pay.

  The marines’ quarters occupied only one section of the Valiant. As he neared the place, he didn’t need to check with Singh which of the cabins was the scene of the fight. When he was still a couple of minutes away, he could hear it. Thuds and bumps, shouts and cheers as watchers egged the fighters on, and over everything, Tyler’s impotent shouts, imploring the marines to cut it out and for everyone to calm down.

  Wright slammed into the cabin with such fury everyone near the door instantly fell silent, and then the effect rippled through the room. Most of the onlookers were clustered in the far corner of the room, where bunks had been knocked away from the bulkhead. Men and women in their underwear looked over their shoulders, saw the major, and began to draw away, slipping into their racks, or quickly finding other occupations. All of them tried to look as though they had nothing to do with what was going on.

  All except Captain Tyler and the fighters. The captain had a split lip, probably from an accidental elbow to the face as he’d tried to pull the small, tussling group apart.

  “Major,” said the captain, approaching him, “I...”

  Wright shook his head. Tyler fell silent.

  One marine lay on the floor, unconscious. Four others were fighting, crushed into the corner, but they were not fighting in pairs.

  It was three against one.

  Just as Wright registered the target, crouched with her back to the bulkhead, she punched one of her attackers in the gut, and then kneed him in the jaw as he went down. The man’s eyes rolled back and he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

  Wright filled his lungs, and then bellowed, “Atten-shun!”

  Perhaps because they recognized his voice, or perhaps out of reflexive habit, the two remaining assailants snapped upright, clapping their legs together, putting their arms to their sides, and thrusting their shoulders back.

  Ellis maintained her crouched position, swaying and panting, blood running from her nose and a cut above her eye. Her knuckles were bloodied, too, but Wright guessed from the state of the bullies’ faces, the blood might not be her own.

  “Corporal Ellis, stand to attention!” yelled Wright.

  She slowly straightened up, her eyes hard and her jaw set. Her chest heaving, she followed his order.

  Aside from the heavy breathing of the fighters, the cabin was silent.

  “Captain Tyler, remove these brawlers to the brig. Not you, Ellis. You’re to come with me.”

  Their gazes averted, the marines in the cabin parted wordlessly to allow him and the corporal through.

  Wright didn’t speak to Ellis until they’d reached his office.

  Lights blinked on in the dark room as they went inside. He sat behind his desk as Ellis followed him in. He rubbed an eye and gave a small sigh. As they’d traversed the ship, his annoyance at being woken and anger about the fighting had worked themselves out of his system, and now he was only tired and irritated.

  “At ease,” he muttered.

  Ellis’s upper lip, nose, and one of her eyes had puffed up and were turning purple. She hadn’t bothered to wipe away the blood from her injuries, it was beginning to crust and turn brown. She looked a sorry sight, but he knew better than to immediately take her side.

  “I need an explanation, corporal,” he said. “What the hell was—”

  “I want to resign,” Ellis interrupted, her voice muffled somewhat by her swollen lip and nose.

  “What?” Her answer had been the last thing he’d expected her to say. It took him a second to redirect his thinking. “Pull up that chair.”

  She scraped the chair’s legs across the floor to his desk before plonking herself down on it.

  When she’d taken a seat, he went on, “Resign?! You can’t resign. Is this because of what was happening back there? You should know the Royal Marines doesn’t tolerate bullying. I’ll put a stop to it one way or another. But you can’t just walk out. You still have...Uh...” He pulled up her file on his interface. “Four and a half years to serve yet. Ellis, serving as a marine isn’t like working in a factory or bartending. You can’t just leave whenever you feel like it. Didn’t you understand that when you enlisted?”

  “I want to return to the Britannic Isles,” she said stubbornly. With a slight tremor in her voice, she added, “I want to go home.”

  He inwardly groaned. A homesick marine. That was all he needed. Especially one Colbourn had plans for. The brigadier would not be slow to forget or forgive if, when she got back, Ellis was no longer around.

  “How did the fight start?” he asked, in an effort to change the subject.

  Ellis’s mouth remained shut.

  “You were clearly being picked on,” he said. “Are your cabin mates jealous about your recent promotion? It can piss people off if they think a newcomer is getting preferential treatment.”

  She gave no sign she’d even heard him, let alone that she was going to reply.

  “How are the training sessions going?”

  Silence.

  “Corporal Ellis, I order you to answer.”

  “I don’t remember how the fight started.”

  Wright thumped his desk. Her insubordination was infuriating. “What was going on in your quarters?” he asked, raising his voice. “Why were those marines attacking you?”

  The woman’s gaze flicked to him and away again. “All I know is, the one who was knocked out when you arrived—Abacha—he didn�
�t have anything to do with it. They took him out when they first attacked me, because they knew he’d defend me. He shouldn’t get into trouble for anything.”

  “Abacha?” The name rang a bell. He’d heard it recently. Wright found the man’s file, and as he brought it up he remembered where he’d heard the name. Ellis had requested that the man be transferred along with her from the Daisy to the Valiant.

  Wright scanned the file. Abacha had signed up three years prior to Ellis. He had a clean record and had been singled out for a mention in several reports. Then Wright realized another reason why the man’s name was familiar. He’d picked him for the rescue mission to West BI. “You took his place on the rescue assignment. You told me he was sick.”

  The oddities surrounding that mission had made him forget the mental note he’d made to check her story.

  “He was sick, sir.”

  She was a bad liar.

  He reached into his desk drawer, grabbed a packet of wipes, and tossed it to her. She took one out and began to gingerly clean the blood from her face.

  “Sounds like Abacha is a good friend.”

  Ellis winced as she pressed the wipe to the cut over her eye, but she didn’t answer.

  “Why are you making this so hard?” When she still didn’t speak, he said, “Maybe I should throw you in the brig with the others. How long do you think you’d last in there with them now?”

  She gave him a hurt look, and he immediately regretted his threat.

  “I’d be okay,” she said. “If I’d had more time, I would have wiped the floor with them.”

  He paused, taking in the enigma who sat before him. How had she learned to fight so well? Her short time in the Royal Marines couldn’t have taught her that.

  “I bet you would.” He put his elbows on his desk and leaned forward. “Ellis, help me out here. The last thing I want to do is punish a victim of an unprovoked attack, but I need to know for sure you and Abacha really are innocent. Fighting is strictly prohibited. If you refuse to give your—”