“There are plenty of others within the UCP who’ll be favored over me,” Kantian states, unconvinced of his own importance.
“Because you’re a captain of a single ship, something I plan to amend. The Tri-Star Federation can ill afford a war with us due to the growing threat of the Throgen Empire. If we move now, engage them in a conflict over the planet Summersun, and force them into a new peace treaty.”
“How do I fit in?”
“I’m assigning your ship to patrol the Neri planetary system. Since it borders Summersun. When an incident occurs you will seize the opportunity.”
“Or I’ll bring the UCP into a full-scale war. I’ll be the downfall of everything you’ve spent the last thirty years building. I want command. I even want to be a president. Never the harbinger of our doom.”
“You won’t be. What I propose has been carefully orchestrated for maximum effectiveness. You must follow my instructions without deviation.”
“It’s impossible to control all factors in a battle. I may be forced to improvise.”
“I’m counting on you and your skill as a captain.”
“Military practice maneuvers on the border of a solar system about to erupt in revolution will send the Mokarran into full-alert status,” Kantian points out.
“I’m aware of Mokarran tactics. Unlike most of the captains in our fleet, I’ve actually fought against them. Your current orders offer our presence near the situation, signaling we won’t allow any spillover of such a conflict to bleed into our territory.”
Kantian’s mind calculates the possibilities of dealing with the Mokarran and of the VP admiral’s offer. Success would make him one of the five most powerful humanoids in the UCP. He knows it’s nearly impossible for a battle to bleed over across a few hundred light years. For the Mokarran to invade Neri or him to take the Deliverance deep into Summersun space has to be a deliberate act of aggression.
“If you are incorrect in this, I stand to not only lose my commission, but my career, and face prison as the catalyst for an unauthorized war.”
“You’ll not see prison. I assure of that, Kantian. You’re taking a gamble. It could ruin your career, but follow my procedure and you’ll become the next vice-presidential admiral of the UCP when I die.”
REYNARD RARELY DISPLAYS himself in the standard Silver Dragon uniform, let alone the full plumage of the decorative dress version. Despite the wild, frivolous, and seemingly undisciplined nature of Osirian mercenary groups, many have contributed significantly to the military operations of hundreds of planets. Calling for the occasional attendance of official function requiring many Lance units to formality sport a dress uniforms. This forces the mercs to adopt elaborate formal outfits to bring them in line with a standard military code of conduct.
Reynard prefers pants and a T-shirt to the V-neck jumpsuit and fully zipped and buttoned jacket. How Australia wears hers to code every day while on duty is beyond him. The leather’s comfortable but not with the belts secured. They may be employed by Admiral Maxtin, but they are not military. They barely function as a mercenary unit. Reynard sees them as a failed football team waiting for the coach or high school janitor to step in and give the inspirational speech to send them forward to win the championship game, altering their lives for the positive forever. The limited scope of all those ’80s movies from his home planet provides no insight into the world he woke up into a thousand years later.
The neck belt of the uniform chafes his naked, freshly shorn skin. He hates shaving even more than dressing up. In a thousand years someone would invent a better method than dragging a life-ending razor across two of the most important veins and arteries in the Osirian body.
Osirian.
One term he’s forced to adopt.
Human.
Apparently his species are actually known to the galaxy as Osirians. Osiris, a mythical god on Reynard’s planet, was actually the leader of humans with a similar genetic makeup. He found Earth while in exile. For what reasons are still debated, but whatever caused Osiris’s banishment a few hundred-thousand years ago also caused every species of intelligent design to detest humans. It was in their exile that his branch of the species avoided extinction. Reynard figures they had to surrender all technology and promise to never return to the stars as well, but this promise was forgotten after a few dozen generations, and people began to reinvent technology on Earth.
Two fully armored warriors escort him down the long corridor. They’ve allowed him to keep both the magnum holstered low on his right hip in the quick-draw gunslinger holster and the Calthos sword of honor he wears on his left.
The universal translator defines the blade as a katana, a sword favored by the warrior class in feudal Japan. Those skilled samurai wielded it with such precision people believe they are the perfect sword. Hundreds of years later, entertainment—in the form of movies—deluded romantic view, also leading laymen to believe the katana works for every sword battle. This blade, not quite a katana, but similar in style, withstands blows as effectively as a longsword. He has found the translator frequently mislabels objects to words he understands instead of an actual designation.
The sword is not just the centerpiece decoration of his dress uniform. He earned the right to carry this weapon, something few not born of Calthos parents have ever received. Admittedly, he revered the warrior’s blade as a display of his honor more than his proficiency, but according to Joe, his untested skill is not to be scoffed at.
Reynard keeps his left hand cupped on the end of the hilt. An impossible tactic to draw the blade swiftly, but he wishes to show he doesn’t intend to use the weapon. He should have shined his boots or put on a new pair. They are clean, but well-worn. At least in this getup his feet
