Chapter Five

Day 1,504 of the War:

They had been separated into random groups for the semi-annual training exercise.

Cheloi checked the charge on her stun-rifle and took a careful look around. Most of her senior officers were on active duty throughout the Nineteen and would have to sign up for a later simulation, but that still left a group of six to slog through the current one.

It was mid-morning and the Nineteen was two territories away to her north. She had been quiet on the way down, mulling over Copan’s words from their last session, and trying to appear aloof rather than ill at ease. She was only a little surprised to see that Yinalña was as competent as Koul had intimated, guiding them smoothly by articulated-wheeler, then medium-speed skimmer, to the designated rendezvous point. Thankfully, with other people in the vehicle, it narrowed the options of her making a total fool of herself, but she couldn’t help the glances she sent to the front.

They disembarked in one of the safest spots on the planet, almost in the centre of Territory Five. The training centre was on the eastern outskirts of the small Menon city of Bul-Guymem. The city had been captured at the very beginning of the planetary campaign and the Empire had subsequently turned it into a continental relaxation hub and exercise range.

Once they disembarked at the entry point, the group was efficiently shepherded to their destination. The administrative lieutenant at the training site referred to his flimsy, reading out the group breakdowns. This time, Koul was going to be partnered with Yinalña, Rumis with Wakor and she with Colonel Prola from Red sector.

The last time they’d run the Bul-Guymem course, Koul had “killed” her and Cheloi was aching for revenge. She watched him now, his head bent as he inspected his own equipment. The sun burnished his hair to a sharp ivory. She was not above taking him out of the equation before the exercise began. Was there some way she could sabotage his rifle before they even got started? Or his sensor harness? Could she persuade Yinalña to do something? She flicked her eyes to her driver and was startled to find herself the recipient of a sharp-eyed gaze.

The younger woman looked away but it wasn’t quick enough. There was more there than the usual anxiety, Cheloi was sure of it. Nervousness yes but also a flash of steely determination, as if she had come to some kind of hard decision. What could have put such an alien expression on her aide’s face?

“We’ve changed the layout since the last time you were here,” the junior officer told them, cutting in on her thoughts, “but the goal remains the same. A minimum of two kills and capture of the white pennant means you win. All pressor fields will be dropped and harnesses initialised one second before the signal to begin. Good luck.”

Cheloi didn’t even try to look through the heavy waver of the forcefield that kept the group from the rest of the simulation exercise. Because most of the Perlim campaign had now devolved to fighting in built-up areas, she knew the exercise would mirror this. Besides, it was impossible to squint through the violent shimmer of the pressors and make out anything useful.

Prola inched closer to her as she approached the massive simulation dome and its sole entrance. She acknowledged him with a curt nod of her head. He was tall, with a square dour face and a slight hunch to his posture. He had been one of Samnett’s promotions, which made his abilities a little suspect but, so far, he had performed his duties adequately. Usefully, he also had some field experience and got on well with Vanqill. All three meant that Cheloi kept him in his position and he was transparently grateful for her largesse. Perlim commanders were notorious for playing favourites and throwing their weaker rivals and potentially disloyal subordinates to the wolves. Historically, that used to literally happen in the empire’s military-run game pits. As centuries passed, the custom became more refined, but no less deadly.

Cheloi gave him a small tight smile of impatience. All they could do now was wait for the lieutenant’s signal. Her weapon was still inactive. She tried to trigger the rifle surreptitiously, hoping someone had overlooked all the safety lockdowns, but it remained stubbornly dead. She would have to defeat Koul during the exercise rather than before.

Pity.

Only a small beep signalled that her harness was activated. The group of six surged forward through the dome’s portal, the pressor slamming back into place the moment the last of them entered. And night fell. A total night, not even relieved by the storm flashes that usually lit up the dark Menon sky. The Empire was obviously ramping up its training scenarios.

Cheloi got one truncated glimpse of a shattered town, upturned wheelers and broken multi-storied buildings before everything went pitch black. She activated her ‘scope, grabbed Prola by the arm and pointed.

“Go right,” she whispered. They scurried to a vehicle wreck on the side of a cratered road, pressing themselves against the twisted metal plates to avoid detection. Behind them, someone had already started firing.

The next time she spoke to Senior Colonel Fein Chinwoh of Territory Seventeen, she’d be giving him an earful. He had gone through his scheduled exercise two weeks before and had not mentioned the night-time scenario to her. The bastard probably had some money riding on the outcome.

As she crouched, breathing as silently as she could, Cheloi realised that her surroundings were not as pitch-black as she had first assumed. She could make out Prola’s outline. Around her, small sources of light weakly illuminated the occasional ruin dotting their course. This was good news because her ‘scope was playing up.

Prola shook his head, then tapped his own ‘scope’s small lens. He pointed his finger upwards under his chin, indicating problems. So, two ‘scopes were out of action. What were the chances?

She deactivated the night-vision and signalled Prola to do the same.

“We depend on the ‘scopes and we’re dead,” she whispered.

He nodded agreement.

“Let’s separate and head to that tall building.” She pointed to a broken tower a hundred metres away to their north, its frame silhouetted by the faint light. “I’ll meet you on the third level.”

Prola headed left, away from her, and she heard him trip over something.

Poor Perlim officers. They were too used to space-faring strike vehicles and voice-activated machinery, smooth floors and sterilised air. She veered right, tucking her rifle behind her back and felt her way forward with cautious hands and feet. For the moment, avoiding detection by the other teams was her first priority. She heard a shout and the sizzle of a stun-round far over to her left but stayed focused, gingerly twisting her boots to follow the ground’s uneven contours as she navigated through broken mortar and cement.

If she believed in an afterlife, Cheloi imagined the hell of sinners to look like the terrain she was creeping through. Religious people might want to scare non-believers and their own disciples with images of acid eating through muscle, extreme heat or cold burning flesh, creatures of nightmare consuming beings alive but, to her, nothing captured the futility of one’s existence, the utter hopelessness of any possible action, better than an eternal bomb-cratered landscape such as the one she was traversing.

Reaching the tower, she climbed the exposed emergency staircase of the designated rendezvous point, stepping softly so she didn’t disturb the crunchy dust beneath her feet any more than absolutely necessary.

She was the first to reach the third level and waited for Prola to join her. Away to the north, like the prize at the end of a maze, one bright light illuminated a stiff pennant, sending a beacon of white into the darkness. She crouched down against a crumbling wall and checked her stun-rifle again for charge.

When Prola arrived seven minutes later, he did so in a cacophony of slithers and crunches that made her wince. She signalled him to lie on his chest and they both peered over the bare concrete edge. They could see nothing for a few moments, then a glint caught Cheloi’s eye.

“There,” she whispered. Down at ground level, some scraps of light were reflecting off the rims of two night-scopes.

“Who are they?” Prola asked. “Koul?”

“Don’t know. Maybe Wakor.”

The two night-scopes remained frozen in position. Cheloi frowned. As if they weren’t being worn, but were only placed there as bait.

“I think we should—”

They caught the nimbus of a stun-rifle’s blast as it splintered the pillar next to them, sending shards of stone flying in every direction. Cheloi bit back an expletive as she hunched upwards and kicked with her feet, launching herself backwards. Prola ducked his head, covering it with his hands as another blast hit the floor a few centimetres away from him.

“Prola!” she called, all pretence at concealment gone. “Fall back. Now!”

To his credit he tried, but it was too late. The third shot caught him square in the chest as he started to rise, locking his harness and limbs, and sending him crashing to the floor.

Cheloi didn’t hesitate. She turned and ran, jumping down the flights of stairs as quickly as she could, and not resting until she had found a large heap of rubble on the ground floor to hide behind. Leaping over the broken pieces of masonry, she hunkered down and steadied her breathing.

Prola, of course, was still alive although, for the purposes of the exercise, he was now registered as a fatality. His harness had locked every movement of his body, a condition designed to stop him interfering any further in the simulation. Cheloi knew that a pick-up crew would be despatched to collect him but, in the meantime, she had to keep quiet and concealed lest she become the second casualty of the team.

She breathed in and out through her mouth carefully. Nothing moved for several minutes and she was just about to raise her head above the pile of rubble when she heard a single, soft crack. Her rifle was not in a good position. She was holding the barrel with one hand in anticipation of standing up and there was nothing else she could do but freeze. She locked her limbs, hoping that whichever party was scouring the building wouldn’t find her. The muscles of her legs started to burn, but she held her position.

She heard a slither, this time from contact on the concrete dust that liberally sprinkled the stairs. They must think she was still above them. What she could have done with a working night-scope right now. Or even a tight-repeat stun-rifle. The thought of straightening and spraying the area with fire was tempting, but the weapon she held was tuned deliberately to be single-shot and slow cycling. No help there.

When Cheloi finally heard the definite tread of two sets of feet on the level above her, she scurried out of the building and melted into the shadow of a bombed-out, single-storey shed, then slowly began heading north.

It was probably Rumis and Wakor who had spotted them on their perch. Koul was the sort of man who went directly for the target. He was single-minded that way. And, as loyal as Rumis was, Cheloi knew she couldn’t count on it during their exercise. He was predictable like that too. It was a shame they were with the Perlim. Given the right circumstances, she could easily imagine herself fighting next to Koul instead of against him.

But that was fantasy. Right now, Koul was most probably heading straight for the white pennant and, if she wanted to nail his pale hide, she should too.

She continued angling north, relying on her memory of the terrain from her previously elevated position. Once she got rid of Koul, she’d lie in wait for Wakor and Rumis.

Almost half an hour later, she approached the final obstacle between her and the white pennant. A maze. It brought all the elements of urban guerilla fighting into one compact space—the lack of clean lines of fire, the sudden possibility of hand-to-hand fighting, the disorientation.

Nimbly, she climbed one of the outer walls until she was on top of it. The tower of light at the centre of the maze provided enough illumination for her to see into quite a few of the labyrinth’s pockets. She started stepping slowly and lightly along the narrow ridge, looking for Koul. Something nagged at her mind, but she put it to one side. Nothing was as important right now as finding her second-in-command.

Ah! There he was, peering cautiously around a corner, facing away from her.

Cheloi grinned as she lifted the rifle. He was going to be completely surprised by what was about to happen. Leisurely, she lined up the rifle’s scope and let out a breath, waiting for him to pull back and present a larger target area.

Then she was hit. She knew the sensation instantly but it still didn’t numb the painful jolt that coursed through her body. Her harness locked almost every joint in her body and she toppled off the wall, her rifle spinning away from her. It was two and a half metres to the sandy floor below and she was helpless, unable to cushion her tumble. Luckily, the rigid harness took most of the impact but contact with the hard ground rocked her from teeth to toes and knocked the breath from her body.

Gasping, Cheloi moved her head out of the dust and sand and saw a pair of boots. Against painful pressure, she forced her head to angle higher.

Lith!

That was what her brain was trying to tell her. In her zeal to eliminate Koul, she had forgotten about her aide. The expression on Lith’s face was intriguing. In the quick glance she’d managed to get, Cheloi saw pride mixed with determination with an underlying thread of horror.

Cheloi could still talk, but Koul arrived at a run before she thought of anything to say. She dropped her head. It was too painful fighting the harness’ rigidity. She couldn’t see Koul but she didn’t miss the pleasant surprise in his voice.

“Well done, Lieutenant. I think I can safely say you’ve just won us the pennant.”

Cheloi scowled, but only the sand beneath her face saw it.

Koul Grakal-Ski flicked the silky white pennant onto his desk as he entered his quarters, a rare grin on his face. That would make two wins, a year of humiliation, for his superior officer in the simulation exercises. Moving to the bathroom, he stripped off his clothes and threw them in the laundry bin just by the doorway. It was already halfway full, and Koul’s expression of mirth sapped away.

Menon IV might be the gateway to his greatness, but it also demanded a sizeable dose of humiliation as payment. Even discounting the repressive presence of the Senior Colonel, he still had to bear the inconvenience of sharing an orderly with the other Sub-Colonels and Majors in HQ. He wasn’t blind. He knew the Empire was hurting in terms of recruitment numbers, but he hadn’t battled his way to his current rank only to be treated like one of his subordinates.

Under the cold stream of water in the shower cubicle, Koul washed the dirt of Bul-Guymem from his skin. He had known that Sie was aching for revenge after his last victory and had rationally concluded that his chance for a second success was slim. But neither he, nor the Senior Colonel, had counted on the Senior Lieutenant.

Koul switched off the water and towelled himself dry.

Lith Yinalña.

What a mass of contradictions that woman was. He didn’t need to be a psychic to know that she had secrets somehow connected with the Nineteen. Her desperation when she approached him in Blue sector was obvious. Normally, he treated the insistence of junior officers with the silent contempt they deserved, but there was an interesting edge of rashness in her request to see him. It wasn’t fear, even though that might have been completely understandable. Caught in the disaster of the rout, watching her commander get killed, both were enough to send any young soldier into wild-eyed hysteria. But there was none of that in Yinalña. She may have tried to play it that way but he saw through her in an instant.

There was something at Nineteen’s HQ that she wanted. Wanted badly enough to lie about the trauma of losing a beloved superior and plead for reassignment. Her request was backed up by the sector’s Sergeant Major, so she’d obviously done her work on him. And, because he had nothing better to do, no current plan to put into play, he initiated the transfer.

On a whim.

Koul dressed in a pair of loose field trousers, but kept his feet and chest bare. Barring an emergency, he had the rest of the evening to relax. Padding back to his anteroom, he locked the door and settled into a chair behind his desk.

Activating his console, he scanned the timestamps and sender identifications for the latest message from his wife, sighing when there wasn’t one forthcoming.

It was approaching Spring Festival on his home planet. Taelsa had probably taken the children to visit her parents. He missed his children. And he missed his stubborn, beautiful, aristocratic wife. She, who had the pick of men paying court to her, had instead chosen a young career officer to make her life’s mate, much to the angry disappointment of her parents.

It was because of Taelsa that he had volunteered for the Menon campaign. He knew what she had to endure because of him. He despised the open scorn his in-laws heaped on him purely because he was a man of humble beginnings and, without him around, they took out their frustrations on their daughter. She tried to gloss over the facts when she sent him a letter, but he knew all the players too well to be deceived by her casual comments. The only way he could exact revenge for their behaviour, short of killing them all in swift strokes, was by being a success. Promotion to General. Perhaps even a junior seat at Central Control. And when he achieved such prominence on a galactic scale, not merely the planetary pond her parents so condescendingly played in, he would exact revenge.

For now, however, it was still too painful to travel home on leave. Pain in seeing what his family had to endure and pain in his inability to do anything about it. In her parents’ eyes, he was still little more than the inexperienced captain who had wedded their rich daughter. The fact that he was now second-in-command to the most vital territory on the planet meant little to them. They wanted titles, nothing less. And he had made a vow not to return home until he had that title in his hand. And when he did, he’d shove it down their throats so hard….

Koul was brought back to the present by the sensation of his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palm. Slowly, he unclenched his fist and looked down at the crescent-shaped imprints embedded in his hand.

But there was nothing he could do about the situation if Sie remained in command. Under orders from certain factions of Central Control, he couldn’t even transfer away to a different territory. Every second Sie remained was one more second Taelsa and the children had to endure the scorn of her parents.

His thoughts turned back to Yinalña.

Why had she helped him at Bul-Guymem? He thought Yinalña was soft and ineffective, but she had shown a surprising edge during the exercise.

In contrast, he hadn’t been fooled by Sie. By the chats with her new driver. Their cosy walks around the camp’s inner perimeter. All this time, he had been looking for a hint of impropriety between her and her adjutant, when it was more a question of gender than looks. On an intellectual level, Koul really didn’t care about her personal proclivities. But the Empire did.

Was evidence of such an abomination enough to destroy an otherwise promising career? Perhaps. But Koul had to make sure he made his plan airtight. A mere suspicion of impropriety was not enough. The Colonel’s record was spotless. Koul had pored over it enough times to have the major entries seared into his brain. He’d get no help from that quarter. And Swonnessy was as clean as he was loyal. Maybe he could get more ammunition from Yinalña herself?

First thing in the morning, he decided, he would put a rush on the lieutenant’s detailed record. Maybe then it might take only weeks for the paperwork to get to him, rather than the usual few months. There might be something in her record he could exploit. There had to be. But, for now, there was little else to do but relax.

He put his feet up on the desk, nudging aside the pennant with his toes, and leant back in his chair. Waiting for the morning.