Fletch gently pushed open the large and lavishly decorated bronze doors of the university administration building and ambled out into the portico. He set his cup of coffee down on the pedestal of a granite pillar and pulled his cigarette case from the breast pocket of his tan trench coat. The old chief inspector plucked a cigarette from the ornately engraved case with slender fingers and wondered why the Kael let him come at all.
Something felt very off with the whole thing. The more he thought about it, the more he questioned the story he got. Mike Anderson was certainly depressed, but as far as Fletch could tell, he had not displayed any suicidal behavior. And why now? Fletch thought. Things were on the upswing for the kid. His grades were excellent, his family situation was good, and he was out of the house more this term than the last. Fletch scratched his mustache. Why would the seals hide the autopsy and the gun? He brought the cigarette to his lips, snapped the filigreed case shut, and slipped it back into the breast pocket of his coat. Fletch flicked open his lighter and sighed as he lit his cigarette. Murder.
It was a hopeless case. These days, warrants were approved by the seals, and even if they weren't, he doubted that he could get one anyway. His suspicion of foul play was backed by nothing but his instinct.
Fletch watched students hustle and bustle through the plaza in front of him as he puffed away at his cigarette and pondered his theory.
But why kill him now? They could have done it in complete secrecy while he was a POW. And it couldn’t be to keep what happened in Philadelphia under wraps. His death brings more attention to it. And he wasn’t a rebel. So why? Fletch sipped at his coffee as he flicked ash from his cigarette. Vengeance? Did he kill some noble brat during the war?
Fletch scratched at his grey mustache and glanced at his watch. I’ll have to follow that thread. He tossed his half-smoked cigarette into a puddle as he briskly walked down the steps and through the university plaza.
The withered investigator was deep in thought when he entered the parking lot. What do I tell that Enrique chap? He unlocked his car and crawled in. I certainly can’t tell him that his mate’s been clipped with no evidence. Fletch turned the key, and the engine of his little Volvo sputtered to life. It’s no bleeding use. I’ll just tell the lad they weren’t interested in sharing and keep my suspicions to myself.
As he reached for the shifter, Fletch noticed a delightfully thick manilla envelope stuck in the gap between the center console and the passenger seat.
He pulled the envelope from the crack. Gingerly, he opened it and pulled out a small note. It read We’re even now, prick.
Fletch smiled and couldn’t help but mutter, “The game is afoot,” as he flicked through the stack of documents inside.
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Isabella poked her head into the large office and saw Professor Dret’la with a ball of dark green yarn on her lap and bone darning needles beset with carvings in her hands.
Isabella was struck with confusion. What? She crochets!?
The professor looked up from her labor, spotted the confused girl outside her door, and called, “Come in.”
Isabella walked into the office and took a seat. She gestured to the yarn in the professor's hands. “What are you making?”
The professor smiled as motherly as one could with a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth. “It will be a hat for my son. He just received his commission as a junior biologist, so he has to rummage around in freezers to get samples for his whole research team.”
Isabella blinked. This was not characteristic at all for the quick-tempered professor with a penchant for launching chalk across lecture halls at the mildest provocation.
Isabella shook off her shocked expression and gave the tall professor a dimpled cheek smile. “That’s so sweet! I’m sure he’ll love it. One of the best gifts I’ve ever received was a thick wool sweater from my mamma during a training exercise off the coast of Norway.”
The professor, still smiling, sat up straight. “I hope that’s the kind of reception I get.”
The professor’s demeanor hardened as she stowed the yarn and needles in the desk drawer. “Now, let's get down to business.”
Isabella gulped.
“To start, congratulations. You’ve passed our testing and been selected for officer training.”
Isabella asked, “Who else was selected?”
“There are nine others: Robert Rhodes, Elena Pavel, Hal Jellico, Zheng Li, Brooke Halsey, Colow Aden, Magnus Tordenskjold, Bill Lee, and Kazuya Yamamoto.”
Isabella didn’t recognize all the names.
“Should you choose to accept, you will be taking a prep course taught by Colonel Ocidea and I starting next week and lasting all through the summer. If we deem you ready, you’ll ship out for basic training and then off to the Royal Military Academy, where you can earn your commission.” Dr. Dret’la leaned in close to Isabella. “Do you accept?”
Without hesitation, Isabella answered, “Yes.”
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“Mike, come over here. You’re going to want to see this.” Calty voiced from her seat in the front of the cockpit.
Mike rolled off the couch and walked into the front of the cockpit as the captain shouted, “Decelerate!” Mike couldn’t help but grab onto the back of Calty’s seat as the FTL drive kicked into gear. The cockpit glass dimmed just before blindingly bright blue jets of fire from the front-facing engines came into view. A bright green circle flickered onto the glass surrounding a marble-sized dot darker than the rest of the now dim screen. The dots and circles expanded at an extreme pace until they took up most of the display. Another dot appeared—minuscule compared to the other—surrounded by a red circle. The growth of the shadowy dots and the circles around them slowed and then stopped entirely as the engines sputtered out.
The HUD faded out of view, and the tint of the glass slowly lightened, revealing a vast planet embraced by blue-green ice with a colossal foundry in its orbit. The planet, a gas giant called Drassus, was orbited by four rings. One was made of containers, and the other three were made up of loose ore gleaming in the nearby star's light. Exhaust chimneys spewing gas and fire sprouted from the otherwise spherical foundry, giving it a sea urchin-like profile, which, together with the weave of pipes bringing fuel from beneath the icy surface of the planet below, made the foundry resemble an old naval mine.
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The captain strode up to the front of the cockpit. “One-third ahead and steer 14 degrees left. We’re unloading in bay three.”
Six mech suits and a tug exited a plasma-shielded hanger as the ship came to a halt. The mechs glided to the front of the ship and started dismounting the external cargo bay from the Broken Fin while the tug hitched onto the opposite end of the ten-kilometer-long rack of containers.
A little while later, the tug pulled away with the load of containers, and the comm system blared to life. “Broken Fin, you are cleared to leave. The UO corporation thanks you for your business.”
The captain replied, “Our pleasure. Broken fin out.” as the ship pulled out of the loading bay.
He turned to the navigation officer and said, “Lock in coordinates for jump to Kael Prime.”
The captain went to the central control board and pulled up traffic control. “Tower 1, this is the Broken Fin. We request a jump slot to Kael Prime from Drassus.”
“Broken Fin, request granted. Your departure slot is at 16:33.”
Mike glanced at the top right of the ship's HUD and looked at the time. 16:21.
Better get my stuff together…
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The ship shuddered ever so slightly despite the inertial dampeners as it exited FTL. Mike was lounging on the couch with his bag at his feet. He was ready to get out of this tub.
Mike idly watched flames lick at the cockpit window as the ship descended into the atmosphere of Kael Prime. He looked at Dreki, who was sitting on the other couch. His muscles bulged through his clothes despite wearing a white sweater so large it could be mistaken for the sail of an average-sized boat. Mike asked, “Do you know anything about what’ll happen to me now?”
The big Kael shifted in his seat. “Technically, I’m not supposed to tell you anything, but what the hell.” Dreki pulled the collar of his sweater down, revealing an angry white number burnt into his iron-gray skin just below the collarbone. “First, you’ll get branded.” He released his shirt and pointed to a small scar on the side of his head. “Then you’ll get an AR implant.”
“Where will I be getting that?” Mike asked.
“The Imperial Science Academy. We’re going to be staying there for a few days. They’ll run a bunch of tests and get you fitted for equipment there. After that, I’ll drop you off at the spaceport, and you’ll be off to Tlaxcalssus for basic training. After that, I don’t know.”
“Thanks.”
The ship shook as it touched down on the landing pad. “Time to go.” Dreki shouldered his pack and walked out the door. Mike fiddled with the straps of his bag as he followed Dreki down the ramp and to the far side of the ship, away from the rest of the passengers. Mike's nose was immediately assaulted with the acrid smell of sulfur from where the fiery exhausts of engines had melted asphalt. The spaceport was swarming with vehicles and filled with the constant roar of ship engines and a symphony of smaller equipment. Power loaders and mechs loaded and unloaded heavy cargo, shuttles bustled to and fro with passengers, baggage carriers snaked through the crowded landing pads, and vehicles that looked like floating garage doors zipped through the air at ankle height, bringing pilots and crew to their ships. Mike couldn’t help but chuckle a little at the absurdity of it all. Here he was, in the heartland of the enemy, walking through what was essentially a ten-acre parking lot.
Dreki plopped his bags on the ground and yawned as he stretched his arms over his head. “Our skiff will be here in a minute.”
Mike tuned out the beeps and whirrs of the tank-sized forklifts and mechs unloading the ship and gazed out beyond at the horizon. You’re not in Kansas anymore, bub. Mike thought as he studied the skyline of the imperial city basked in the glow of the early evening sun. Some of the buildings wouldn’t look all that out of place on Earth, but the skyline was assaulted with abominations that pissed on the laws of physics as Man understood them. Tusk-shaped skyscrapers defied gravity with their seemingly unsupported curves, and even more absurd were pyramids stacked atop another point-to-point like hourglasses. Any delusion of normalcy that Mike could come up with was shattered.
Dreki picked up his bag and pointed to a slab of black marble speeding towards them at ankle height. “Here’s our skiff.” A railing popped out of the center as the skiff came to a gliding halt. Dreki boarded the skiff and took hold of the rail, and Mike followed suit.
They sped through the spaceport and stopped outside what looked to Mike like a train station. Dreki shouldered his bag and stepped off the skiff. Mike stepped off and quickly fell in pace with Dreki. The big Kael led Mike into a grand station bustling with people. Most were Kael, but there was a smattering of other species. Some stared at Mike, others glanced, but most completely ignored him as he followed Dreki through the hall and onto a platform. Unfamiliar aliens clearly weren’t an uncommon sight here.
The walls of the station were covered with mosaics depicting Kael warriors from the distant past. Dreki noted the human's curiosity and said, “The founders of the clans.” He leveled a massive hand toward an opulent, towering mosaic of a Kael warrior wielding a bronze falx. The imposing figure's body was made of blue gemstones, the eyes rubies, one tusk silver, and the other gold. “That’s the founder of my clan, Drekalla Gold Tusk.”
Mike asked, “How’d he manage that?” As he followed Dreki into a mostly empty train car.
Dreki plopped down on a bench. “He was the war priest of Hroptaug the Conqueror during the unification wars. After the wars were won, Hroptaug granted us the Steam Hills.” Dreki pointed through the train window at the mosaic of another warrior whose body was made of milky white pearls. “That one,” He paused and spat on the floor, “Tiblan the Terror, challenged Drekalla to a duel for most of that land. Drekalla was cutting him to pieces, but the craven poisoned his blade. Just before Drekalla could deliver the final blow, the poison reached his heart, and Drekalla died. The only wound on his body was a cut across his forearm that barely drew blood.” Dreki rolled up his sleeve, showing a scar that reached from his elbow to the middle of his forearm. “Every K’alla is cut the same way to remind us of the blood feud.”
Mike inwardly sighed. Kael and their damned feuds… “How long ago was this.”
“Seven thousand four hundred and fifty-one years ago.”
Mike held back a snort. The absurdity of it all. The first human law codes came about to stop blood feuds, and out here, they have feuds that have lasted longer than Earth's recorded history.
“How’s that feud been going as of late?”
Dreki’s face sagged, “Not good.”
They both grew quiet. Mike shuffled uncomfortably.
Mike glanced at the route display and broke the silence, “What's with the middle city, inner city thing?”
Dreki relaxed slightly. “Oh, so the city used to be a fortification. The inner city is actually a volcanic island. The middle is built over the river, and the outer city was built on the banks.”
“I see.”
The doors closed, and the intercom sounded, “Next stop, the inner city.”
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Dale Robert’s wrinkled face was unreadable, and his highly decorated black and blue dress uniform immaculate as he led a horse through the street. He felt the eyes of thousands of onlookers on him, and he hated it. The pure black horse had a black leather saddle on its back. Two tall, glossy black boots were placed backward in silver stirrups, and the elaborate hilt of Mike’s basket-hilted broadsword jutted from the top of a black leather scabbard buckled to the saddle. Roberts followed the horse-drawn caisson bearing the flag-draped coffin of his old commanding officer. Not much farther now, he thought. The sounds of the cartwheels rolling and the horse’s tack jangling were wholly drowned out by boots stamping the ground in unison. Almost all of the 1800 survivors of the 801st regiment were there, resplendent in their dress uniforms, marching behind Mike one more time. The local police and fire departments joined them.
Roberts was unsure about it all. He felt that the poor kid's family would have preferred a smaller service back home in Colorado instead of this damn near royal procession. And Roberts was damn sure that the seals did not give their permission for this, no matter what the police chief said.
A reporter ducked through the police barricade and tried to ask the marching soldiers questions, but they remained stone-faced as the procession marched nearer to the gates of Philadelphia National Cemetery. Roberts handed the reigns of the riderless horse to another man in uniform and joined seven other members of Charlie platoon in pulling the casket from the cassion. They silently began their march to the grave, closely followed by General McCarthy, the man who was Joint Chief of Staff, and the color guard. Bagpipers began to blare, “Going Home.” Roberts heard the sound of gravpulse engines and looked up in dismay as a Kael gunship broke through the low clouds and descended to just barely above the cemetery. A loudspeaker blared, “Disperse at once.”