Unwashed and scum-covered, the olive-skinned Osirian has dirty long hair in his face and the smell of someone living on the streets. An eye patch hides his left eye, but not the burn scars around it. His weapon hums with power. The strange pistol-like weapon designed to be held like a rifle implies it has more power than a standard armament of similar size.
“So you two know Admiral Maxtin.”
“Who are you?” The male cadet keeps the tip of his finger on the top of his blaster, ready to execute this raider at a convenient opportunity.
“UCP reconnaissance training leaves much to be desired as you two were spilling secure information, never caring who was in earshot. Second, you may be in tattered garb and from a distance appear to be a part of the refugee population, but you both still have tall and proud strides. These people slump, are beaten, broken husks of former humanoids. They have no pride left. Most important, you kept your UCP-issued boots on. Clean, unscuffed, well-polished. In espionage everyone forgets the footwear.”
The cadets glance down at their captor’s boots. Scratched and beaten, one appears to be held together with some kind of electrical tape.
“Mistakes we won’t make again.”
“You won’t get the chance.”
The dirty Osirian fires. Two swift bursts of a red swirling beam send both cadets into heart-stopping convulsions.
••••••
THE LARGEST SUMMERSUN city, Silvanus, has multiple docking ports for incoming spacecraft. Segregated by use, a passenger transport would be out of place at the farming port as much as Lancers at the civilian terminals. Admiral Maxtin was using the agriculture port as a guise to meet with mercenaries. Logically, if successful before the explosion, those mercs would have evacuated back to the spaceport.
Across the tarmac of a landing port, the dirty Osirian pushes a crate large enough to hold two well-crumpled bodies toward a line of spacecraft. He keeps his head down as he passes Mokarran unloading the souls they captured on the street. He eyes the unloading process peripherally.
The captives are marched into a transport and stripped of all personal items as they reach the top of the ramp. Bundles of rags fall from a hatch in the back of the craft onto a waiting ground cargo transport.
As he swings his crate to keep a wide berth of the Mokarran, he spots the side of their ship. Emblazoned are characters translating from the Mokarran language into “Organic Humus.”
It won’t take him much guessing to how the Mokarran have been fertilizing the crops.
He wheels his cart up the ramp to the modified cargo transport. The shuttles appear to have once belonged to a royal convoy transport down to extra exterior armor to protect the passengers, but they have long since been legally flight-worthy. He secures the crate before pressing the ramp control panel. As the back end of the shuttle rises into place he glares at the “organic humus” transport.
No promise to himself will be too great enough. One day he will be more than just a party to the downfall of the Mokarran. He will stand over the last of their species and pull the trigger, ending all they have done to contaminate the galaxy.
“I AM THE Outer Dimensional Coordinator for the entire UCP fleet. I want the Deliverance deployed to the Neri system for military exercises,” Vice-Presidential Admiral Wendy Easter sneers at the holographic image of a UCP officer with captain pips on his uniform.
“Won’t my presence be viewed as an antagonistic display?” Captain Kantian offers as an indirect reminder to his commanding officer and one of the rulers of the United Confederation of Planets without spelling out the complicated situation in the neighboring system of Summersun with the Mokarran.
“Are you accusing me of saber rattling?” The age lines of the older Osirian woman quiver.
“No, Admiral. I’m just concerned about the fragile state of our negations with the Mokarran. They need little reason to invade now the treaty expired.”
Across the desk the holographic Captain Kantian remains at parade rest while addressing Admiral Easter.
Easter taps her withered index finger before dragging it across the panel under the monitor screen built into her desktop, activating a series of computerized records and reports all bearing Kantian’s name. “You’ve been overdue for a promotion for some time now, Kantian.” She reads printout after printout of Kantian’s service record where she has highlighted dozens of reported actions.
“There’s no dishonor in captaining the UCP flagship.” Kantian remains in his at-ease stance.
“To command one battle cruiser is worthy of most, but you aspire to much more,” she concludes.
“I aspire to protect the UCP from the Mokarran.” A textbook answer.
“I’ve read your service jacket, more than once. Protect would be a political term. You, like so many, want to grind the Mokarran into dust—with the heel of your boot—like they deserve.”
“I want to protect the UCP.”
“I’m dying, Kantian. I’ve no time to placate diplomatic phrases with my replacement.”
“Admiral?” The change in topic shocks him.
“It’s a slow cancer. There’s no cure. Nothing to be done. It’s my badge of courage from the Battle of the Twin Suns.”
“The citizens haven’t had a vote for a new VP admiral since the founding of the UCP thirty years ago.”
“It will be a first. I know full well you have your own agenda despite my attempts to groom you towards what serves the populace the best.”
“I share your views.”
“No, you don’t, not completely. I don’t want to name a lap dog to replace me.”
Kantian notes Easter has stated twice she wants a heritor. “It’s a free election. Not a monarchy where you name your successor. Mandated elections will leave it in the hands of the citizens. Even as the captain of the UCP flagship, I’m not a household name on most worlds.”
“We both know my deathbed endorsement would
