The Azophi Academy Complete Series Boxed Set: Unique Military Education

by TR Cameron

  A scream from his right twisted him around to see a Lienthe soldier stab its spear through Kyle Drent from behind, the blade emerging from his chest in a spray of heart’s blood. His instincts alerted him to his own foe an instant before he would have shared the same fate. He shuffled sideways and spun backward, curling the hand of his prosthetic arm into a fist and delivering it into his opponent’s face. On a human, he would have hit the temple. It took the taller alien in the neck. Either way, it staggered the creature, who was in the lighter version of the armor they wore, presumably to allow the stealthy approach they’d accomplished.

  He finished his spin by bringing his other fist around to smash into the thing’s jaw with all his momentum behind it. The alien gasped and fell. Jax drew his pistol, selected projectiles, and pulled the trigger as soon as it was at the right level to intersect his falling foe. The round blew its head apart. Sounds of battle flooded into his ears as his attention focused outward, and he turned to the nearest to see Lyton wrestling with his own Lienthe soldier. Jax lowered the gun so that if the bullet passed through the alien, it would hit Lyton’s chest armor instead of anything more vital, and fired a round.

  He didn’t wait to see the result but traversed the weapon to target Venn’s opponent. He was perpendicular to that fight and shot the alien through the head at an upward angle. A couple more were emerging from the tree line, and his team was turning to meet them. Jax’s brain was trying to figure out the objective, but nothing made sense until an alien risked itself to find an angle to shoot one of the captives. The moment crystallized, and he locked eyes with the being that had killed Drent as the creature threw its spear at the other man they’d rescued.

  He had no time for thought, only for action. Jax leapt to his left, extending his arm to catch the spear. If the alien had thrown it to his other side where his human limb remained, he might have caught it, but the prosthetic’s integration just wasn’t up to the task. On the upside, he didn’t feel any pain in the limb as the spear stabbed through his forearm. The velocity that wrenched the arm to the side and sent him spinning to the ground—that hurt, though. He twisted and put a round into the creature’s forehead without aiming. It took fifteen seconds to separate spear and arm, and by the time he was functional again, the fight was over. The report would show that his team had won, but losing Drent made the cost of victory far too high.

  Jax sighed. “Lyton, first aid to our prize. Venn, see if there are any enemy survivors. We’ll want to bring them back for questioning. O’Leary, do what you can for Kansas.” She had already reached his side, and her expression confirmed that they had one more name to add to the list of Special Forces soldiers who had given their lives for the UCCA.

  With another sigh, he activated the comm connection to the base. “Home, this is Axe. We need a taxi.” He looked down at his wrecked arm and shook his head. “And alert Dr. Siwah that I’ll be stopping by. She might want to have a wrench handy.”

  Chapter Six

  The team was separated during the first day back aboard the UCCA Cronus. With Jax stuck in medical undergoing the extensive testing and calibrations necessary to add the permanent version of his left arm, command of his people had shifted to his superior, Major Anika Stephenson. She’d stopped by briefly to give the requisite stay strong speech, and they’d both laughed when it was over. She left him with a promise to buy his first round when he returned to full operation, and so far, he’d never seen her break a vow.

  The compartments dedicated to healing looked exactly like the rest of the ship: shiny, new, and sterile, filled with the astringent scent he associated with doctors. White was the dominant theme in this area, while the remainder of the Cronus was notably more colorful. Psychologists had determined some time back that creature comforts were essential to maintain morale in times of stress or some such thing. Of the ships he’d been on so far, it was his favorite. Stephenson’s force had been attached to it for almost half a year, the units often leapfrogging assignments. One of the other two teams was currently in its rest cycle, and the other was deployed to reconnoiter a planet for a future operation. It was exceedingly rare for all three to be involved in the same mission, and the thought of a battle that might require that level of commitment was not the sort of stress that was beneficial to his recovery.

  But finally, it was almost time to leave. He had an arm where an arm should be. He’d have to come back daily for training exercises that were analogous to physical therapy but were intended to teach his nervous system to integrate with his new limb rather than the missing muscles and joints. The new hand worked only a little slowly as he donned his uniform shirt and sealed it up the front. It was black, made to be worn untucked, and had no ornamentation other than the double silver bars on the left collar that indicated his rank. The people who ran the ship had similar off-duty uniforms in blue. He got a thumbs-up from the nurse as he finished the task, and with that was free to depart.

  Aboard ship, he wore a smaller version of the wristcomm that looked like a thick bracelet. He tapped the buttons to dictate a message to his team, then headed to the ship’s recreation deck. The nearest elevators were near the middle, and he only had a few decks to descend to get to the liveliest location on board. For almost half of the ship’s length and two decks high, the space from the port to starboard hulls was a replica of a city street, from the fake sky on the double-high ceiling above to the deck painted like a sidewalk below. Restaurants, bars, and gaming areas of every kind covered either side of the main thoroughfare. This was a place where any member of the crew could cut loose and enjoy themselves during their downtime. Weapons were prohibited, and security personnel in plain clothes wandered the area to keep an eye on things. He’d never heard of anything rowdier than a fistfight going on, though. No one wanted to break the spell of normalcy that “Space Street” provided.

  He headed directly for the spot he’d summoned his team to, a restaurant near the center. Goods and services along Space Street required the outlay of cash, unlike those on the rest of the ship that were gratis to the soldiers aboard. Around him flowed waves of predominantly happy-looking men and women in clothes similar to his own, which was the usual arrangement in the mornings and afternoons. For those whose off shifts corresponded with the evening hours, the place could get a little more intense, the outfits a little more revealing, the energy a little more wild. He’d enjoyed that, too, but today wasn’t the day.

  He stepped into the darkened restaurant and found the others already assembled around a small table at the back. The rest of the space held scattered gatherings of twos and threes, plus a couple solo folks at the long bar that ran along one side. The table his team had chosen seated four, the first time since they’d all come together a couple years before that they could make do with that small a table. A bottle already rested on the table, Maker’s Mark bourbon, Kyle Drent’s favorite. Four shot glasses sat beside it, and Kyra Venn uncapped it and poured as he approached. No words were exchanged until she was finished, and then they all raised a glass. He said, “Kansas gave his life for something bigger than himself. He died a hero.” It was one of his favorite quotes, from Joseph Campbell, who knew a thing or two about heroes.

  “Kansas,” the others replied, and they all drank their bourbon. The glasses were refilled, and this time it was Kyra Venn who spoke as they raised them. “Our work continues. May we all live long, or end with honor.” This time they tapped their glasses together, murmuring “Honor” before downing them.

  The glasses were refilled again, but the toasts were over, and the time for discussion had come. He said, “I think the Lienthe who ambushed us were there to eliminate the Confederacy troops before they could leave. It’s the only thing that makes sense to me. They couldn’t have known we were coming.”

  Darius Lyton frowned. “They must have been wearing thermal cloaks since we didn’t pick them up. Probably countermeasures for the other scans, too.”

  Beatrice O’Leary lifted her glass to her li
ps and sipped, then set it down again. “I sure didn’t detect them. I’ve gone over what I can remember, and I agree. There’s no way we just failed to spot them. They must have been really well hidden.”

  Venn replied, “I reviewed the recordings from my display. They simply weren’t there. It wasn’t anything you missed, Bo. We just wound up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Lyton gave a dark chuckle. “Except for that one guy we rescued who survived. Right place, right time for him.”

  Jax nodded. “And that’s significant. Ultimately, it’s our job to be in harm’s way to protect those who can’t protect themselves. Including the normals.” They laughed together, but it was good-natured. Though they teased the soldiers they came across mercilessly both to their faces and behind their backs, it was just part of being who they were. At its foundation lay respect for their commitment to a common purpose. And to be fair, they took some pretty solid verbal hits in return about being elitist assholes. It was a bond of a sort, and on the whole, far more positive than negative. He’d read that in the days of the separate services on Earth, there had been inter-organizational rivalry as well. Collapsing all the different militaries into one didn’t miraculously cause that competitive spirit to vanish, and it was better to have the fights with words than with anything else. He snorted inwardly. Now, if only our enemies would get that through their heads, we’d be much better off. He considered that for a moment and amended, And our politicians. They could use some perspective, too. Maybe a little time on the front lines would help.

  A vibration from his wristcomm interrupted his thoughts. It displayed a system-wide alert that the ship was nearing Pallas station. He looked up and asked, “Want to go watch?”

  It took some walking and some riding to reach the viewing lounge in the front of the ship. It could have been located anywhere since the huge curved display that pretended to be a transparent window to the outside was nothing of the sort, but the act of going as far forward as you were able to go had an emotional impact.

  Tables were arranged near the screen, with chairs scattered around them like you might find in a nightclub. Then rows of comfortable seats climbed upward to afford everyone an unobstructed theatre-style view of the vista beyond the ship’s hull. He and his team found a row and sat together. Before them, medium-sized but growing larger was their destination: Pallas station. It was positioned near Mars, a couple of days’ flight time from Earth on the Cronus. It would take longer on a ship lacking the spare power to provide artificial gravity to compensate for the pressures of that kind of acceleration. Jax had been on short, slow trips without the compensators many times, and the ache they gave went right down to the bone.

  Pallas was a recent build, taking the place of the first station, now decommissioned, that had been located closer to Earth’s moon. It maintained the same basic architecture: a vertical spine with a ring near the top and spokes for ships to dock at intervals around the circumference. The station’s skin consisted of solar panels to provide supplemental energy to that generated by the huge reactors at the base of the spine. The technology was beyond him; all Jax knew was that the station was reportedly safe and stable, and it hadn’t lost power in its decade of operation.

  It wasn’t until they got close that the true size of the installation became clear. The Cronus wasn’t the biggest ship in the UCCA fleet, but it was up there. You could have docked several copies lengthwise along the spoke they were clearly headed for. One of the fleet’s largest class of ships, a Starsword, took up a whole section. Jax squinted to make out the name: Scimitar. He gestured at it. “Will you look at that thing?”

  Venn shook her head. “The normal response here would probably be something like boys and their toys, but damn, I’d love to take that baby out for a spin and see what she can do.”

  Lyton nodded his agreement. “No kidding. I hear they’re working on some kind of really big gun to go along with all the other very big guns they’ve already got on board.”

  O’Leary snorted. “As if it needs more on top of the fighters and the bombers and the lasers, particle cannons, and torpedoes.”

  Jax shrugged. “You know what they say. Better to have it when you need it, blah blah blah.” The station grew huge in the screen, filling it as they sidled up to the docking berth. “Major’s giving us all forty-eight hours of R&R once we disembark. Word is that we’ll be back with the Cronus when she leaves, so no need to pack everything. I don’t want to see you bozos doing anything like work for two days, got it?” Grins and nods answered him. “Good people.”

  Before anyone could leave the ship, other people had to accomplish lots of things he didn’t need to have the details of, only the knowledge that they would take six hours. Jax spent most of them asleep, then showered and dressed in his off-duty uniform again. He strapped on the wristcomm, made sure his hair was properly styled, and headed for one of the disembarkation points.

  The area of the station that housed his destination was exclusively for the use of the military, so weapons were neither needed nor permitted. Other sections were for open trade, and you wouldn’t want to be caught without a sidearm there. Independents, colonists, and every other kind of space traveler would be present in those spaces, and they tended to be a volatile bunch. Not that he and his people weren’t volatile, but they typically channeled it in more useful and less random directions.

  The boarding tube took him onto the spoke, where his ID was checked and logged into the system. From that point on, the station’s artificial intelligence systems would keep track of him. He figured that in the near future, the wristcomms that were the communication, tracking, and computer assist devices for the Armed Forces would be replaced by some kind of implant. Which will hopefully work better than the stuff I’ve got now. He laughed to himself, then slipped on his glasses and requested a path to the medical wing. A thin yellow line appeared in his visual field to guide him.

  He arrived at the appointed time to find Doctor Siwah waiting with a man in a long white jacket. He grinned at the unexpected development, and she gave him a smile in return. Her voice was amused as she said, “I wanted to make the introductions personally. Captain Jackson Reese, this is Doctor Lawrence Foley.”

  The other man extended a hand, and Jax gripped it with his prosthetic. Foley turned it over without releasing it, glanced down, and nodded. “Good grip strength, pretty fine control.” He looked up again. “Irene has told me about the situation with your foot and your arm. I know we can help with the arm since the permanent will be an improvement on the temp, no matter how well she did it.”

  Dr. Siwah—Irene—chuckled. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s arrogant enough to believe that whatever he does is better, regardless. We went to school together, and he graduated with a score that was a tenth of a point higher than mine. I never hear the end of it.”

  Jax grinned. “I’ve found that what you know and what you can do are two very different things, Docs.”

  Foley displayed a mouth full of unexpectedly large teeth with his big grin. It took the edge off his pretty-boy looks, which with the perfect blond hair and the unblemished skin and the sparkling green eyes were a little much to take. Jax found himself liking the other man, and Foley’s next words reinforced the feeling. “I couldn’t agree more. And though she’s humble about it, Irene is one of the best I’ve ever seen at prosthetics, which makes your case very interesting. With your permission, I’ll be sharing my ideas and findings with her.”

  He nodded. “Of course. Wouldn’t have it any other way.” He swiveled to regard her. “Any time you want to get together to discuss them, Doc, you just let me know. And don’t forget I owe you a round or three.”

  Dr. Foley let the moment pass, although his grin showed he’d caught the flirting and didn’t find it at all irritating. Dr. Siwah patted his shoulder as she departed, and Foley led him into the back of the area. “Let’s get that real arm attached, shall we?”

  Chapter Seven

  Th
e procedure was a long one. He was conscious but cut off from his nervous system for a lot of it. The doctors implanted permanent control surfaces on his body, attached the mechanical prosthesis to his existing bones, and then made sure the controls on each were properly aligned before inserting the limb into its final position. A surgical robot arm stitched a metal mesh with a skin culture atop it over the join. In days, the new skin would grow over the metal and attach to what he already had. Then they put him to sleep for a while so they could work with his brain and nerves without his interference.

  When he woke, he was in a standard bed with a sensor cuff on his right arm. Foley appeared a moment later, likely alerted to his consciousness by the device. “The arm looks pretty good. Everything seems to be functioning properly.”

  Jax frowned. “That’s not a full-blown celebration there, Doc.”

  Foley sat on a tall stool at the edge of the bed that allowed him to maintain eye contact easily. “No, it’s not. The technology tested out fine both before and after the graft, same as your leg. Everything reads precisely as it should.”

  “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

  He nodded his sandy hair. “But there’s something weird going on with the communication flow. Your brain sends the right signals, but somehow they get messed up along the way and aren’t received properly. I’ve never seen this before, so I went digging into the records. You’re the proud owner of a very rare condition that presents in less than a tenth of one percent of recorded prosthetic integrations.”