The National Guard

Excerpted from The Guardians of Peace by Jeffrey Caminsky, now available on Amazon, and published by New Alexandria Press.

From Chapter 6

* * *

Peeking through the clouds, the golden sun warmed the afternoon air, and the hillside was alive with wildflowers. The day was muggy, and the grass was still damp from an early spring shower. The subtle fragrance of renewed life was drowned by the acrid smell of burning air.

“No—-no—no!” screamed the drill sergeant, straining to be heard over the din of weapons fire filling the air from the target range, just over the hill.

“Company halt!”

The assembly pressed and grunted its way to a clumsy mass of more or less stationary men and boys, all shuffling under the strain of standing still. The sergeant, a physical education teacher in civilian life, closed his eyes and counted to ten. Then to twenty. When his temper subsided enough to speak in coherent sentences, he strode to the front of the group and threw his daypack onto the driest available patch of ground.

“This is the most miserable, God-awful group of nitwits, fools, and bunglers I’ve seen in my entire life!” he shouted, glaring into the face of each volunteer as he walked down the line. “A bunch of third-graders would have a better sense of organization. Kindergartners have a better attention span. And a slumber-party of teenaged girls would be less inclined to jibber-jabber! What in God’s name are you morons doing that you can’t pay attention?”

As the sergeant’s shouts rose with the gentle spring breeze, Private Jack Markham of Delta Company, Isitian South-Central Militia, unshouldered his weapon and took a deep breath. It was uncommonly warm for this time of year, and all things considered, he’d rather be at home playing with his three-year old daughter. Soon, his mind drifted to his wife’s baked bread, and their summer cottage on the lake. He missed the sergeant’s order to resume marching, and was surprised to find himself suddenly at the bottom of a large pile of bodies, all cursing like spacers at the latest muddle to greet the proud lads of Delta Company, Isitian South-Central Militia.

“Jesus H. Christ— !!” hollered the sergeant, pulling the militiamen away from the mess. “I told you—the next screw-up would cost everybody! And—dammit—I’m sick and tired of yelling myself hoarse!”

As the company fell to the mud and began their penance of pushups and sweat, Jack found himself growing angrier and angrier with each ache of his muscles. The sergeant, playing on their inadequacies as well as their pain, kept drumming away at their clumsiness, insulting their manhood and intelligence, until every one of them was ready to storm Central Command itself. The Terries were the cause of it all, the sergeant kept telling them. If it weren’t for the Terries, they’d all be with their families—lounging around their living rooms and drinking beer, while their wives fed them grilled steak and buttercakes. Soon his groans blended together with those of his comrades, and he found himself wanting nothing more than to have the Terrans land—in downtown New Alexandria, if they had the balls—so that he could even the score.


© 2012 by Jeffrey Caminsky

The Admiral's Grand Entrance

Excerpted from The Guardians of Peace by Jeffrey Caminsky, now available on Amazon, and published by New Alexandria Press.

From Chapter 6

* * *

“Helm, come to 220 north 15; Weapons, charge the shields, prepare to charge the forward guns.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Janet turned the command chair on the simulated bridge to face the portside screens. The simulation was turning into a disaster: none of the kids manning the bridge posts had the slightest notion of what to do. Anticipation meant nothing to them. They could barely anticipate their own bowel movements, let alone orders from the command chair. Nobody did anything without being told; they just sat there like lumps, waiting. And not a single one had the foresight to bring their lunch with them.

Like Nielsen, the rookie weapons officer sitting at his post with a confused look on his face. Obviously, the order to charge the shields had come as a shock to him. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have spent half a minute looking for the right switch when he had five whole minutes of helm maneuvers to ready his post for the simple act of activating the ship’s deflectors. Or Wasser, the systems officer—a nice enough kid: bright, intense, eager to please. But so reluctant to say anything without an invitation. Eisenberg, the navigator, seemed too addled to navigate his way out of a water closet. None of the more experienced people from the New Alexandria, their sister starship, seemed to know their way around a bridge, either. Fortunately, Tony Landis—the nitwit to whom her own husband had given command of the other starship—was drilling his people in Simulator Room Five, across the hall and mercifully out of earshot.

She didn’t know how the Skipper hoped to do anything with such a group, and she didn’t know what she was supposed to do with them, either. The thought of leading them into battle made her sick to the stomach. It didn’t help matters when Skipper disappeared for days at a time, leaving her to face every disaster all by herself. And he was a great one for leaving messages. Always leaving notes and little bits of paper stashed here and there. Do this—try that–-try some other silly thing, they’d all say. But just try to find him when there was work to be done. Or when something went wrong.

“Overtaking target,” reported the young systems officer. “Range one klick and closing.”

“Shields up, Commodore.”

“Charge all forward gun batteries.”

“Aye, Ma’am.”

“Range one-half klick and closing.”

“Fire in the hole, Ma’am,” called the weapons officer. Janet looked at the weapons display on the armrest, to see that the forward gun batteries were now fully operational.

“‘Guns amain’ is the proper prompt, Lieutenant,” said Janet, wondering if they’d actually hit something this time. She never got the chance to find out. “Prepare to fire on my command.”

“All hands, attention!” barked the security officer. As every other officer in the room scrambled to his feet, she heard a reassuringly familiar voice—though it reassured her only for a passing moment.

“Acch—as you were,” said the Admiral, smiling mysteriously as he moved toward the command seat. He squeezed Janet’s hand, and motioned for her to stay where she was. Momentarily flushed with delight at getting to see him, Janet was soon mad as a hornet at the interruption. She glared at him so angrily that Cook mistook the look for passionate devotion and smiled, moved at his wife’s display of affection.

Cook nodded, his sharp eyes moving from face to face as he studied and memorized the features and manner of each member he’d chosen for his bridge crew. Until now, he’d known them only from their work—the silent record of the progress of each officer, kept by the computer he’d programmed just for that purpose. He’d picked three for each station, and was still unsure whether this kind of blind selection would actually yield results. Personal profiles and simulated performances were handy tools, but they could never tell him how much steel was in anyone’s backbone, or how deep the blood flowed in someone’s heart. But he had no real choice. Time was short, and he had no other way to cull through the thousands of volunteers who’d flocked to join his Navy. And anyway, letting them sort themselves seemed like a good idea at the time. He tried his best to keep his doubts to himself, and smiled confidently as he addressed them. He’d always found the best way to face his own fears was to laugh at them, and was determined to help his bridge crew do the same.

“Good day to you all, and welcome to Panic Central,” he said, grinning as the room filled with nervous laughter. “First of all, let me apologize to each and every one of you, for dragging you into this. Usually I try to reward hard work, ability, and dedication, not punish it. And I won’t make any pretense about what we have facing us. It will be lots of stress, mind-numbing drills, and endless repetition. And at the end of it all, we get to let the Terrans try to kill us. Actually, now that I think of it, that’s not the sort of graduation party I’d ordinarily plan to attend.”

Cook looked around the room, letting the rising spirits of his crew begin to take on a life of its own. He could see that laughter was having an effect on his people, and smiled inwardly in satisfaction at the thought that he could still sense which strings to pull. “I suppose that wouldn’t be so bad, by itself,” he continued. “But it doesn’t give us a lot to look forward to. And of course, after we do somehow manage to live through it all, we’ll get to listen to all the preening politicians congratulate themselves on having the courage and vision to face down the Cosmic Guard. Maybe even allowing from time to time, that—well, yes, perhaps the Navy did have a tiny role to play in the whole affair. By the time it’s over I suspect it’ll be more than any of us will be able to stomach.

“Well, then,” he turned to wink at Janet, who was, for some reason he couldn’t understand, now glowering at him. As the crew’s laughter subsided, he shrugged and kept plodding along. “I suppose it’s time to get down to basics. As of tomorrow, we begin maneuvers in real ships, and out in real space. I’ll expect and demand more from this group than any other.

“I selected each of you for a particular reason—either a specialized skill I need, or a particular skill you’ve shown. Like any other assignment in my Navy, until the crisis has passed your job here will be the focus of your existence. Because you’ll be working at tasks that are among the most important in the whole Navy, I expect you to put your heart and soul into your efforts. You will arrive early for each day’s drilling; and you will stay late practicing, to remove any deficiencies that come to light during the day. You will—each of you—excel at your assignments, because I will tolerate nothing less, and because if you are not brilliant at your assigned task, Isis will crumble like dust in the heavens. And no matter how much despair you feel during the days to come, you will also look back on these next weeks as the most exciting, exhilarating, and inspiring days of your lives. You are part of a noble cause—one of the noblest in human history, like Old Earth’s crusade against the Nazis, or the American war against slavery. Every moment you spend honing your abilities and perfecting your skills is one more slap in the face of tyranny. And when the fighting starts, and Terran guns start blasting away, every second you’ve invested in yourself will come to pay dividends. In the heat of battle, everything you’ve learned will come pouring back into your hands and minds with amazing clarity.

“In three weeks, you’ll be able to stand against the best the Terrans have to throw at us. The Commodore and I will see to it—and mark my words, we will not let you shortchange yourselves, your homes, or your families. You may well come to hate us in the coming days. But when we lead you into battle, you’ll fight as warriors have always fought—with hearts aflame and heads held proud. And we mean to see that when the day of battle finally comes, each of you will have the tools and skills to battle on to victory.”

Cheers ringing in his ears, Cook turned to look at Janet, who was now smiling proudly despite her best efforts to stay annoyed.

“Now, I need two volunteers to man the systems and weapons stations. You two— ,” Cook pointed at the hapless pair still seated at the designated stations, holdovers from the drill Janet was conducting when Cook finally made his appearance. “You two stay where you are—and do try to pay attention. I get rather testy when my bridge crew fails to keep up the pace. The rest of you sit back; the Commodore and I will show you what a starship can really do.”

Cook stepped toward the navigator’s station, and motioned for Janet to join him at the helmsman’s console. As they took their seats, an audible murmur filled the entire bridge.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” whispered Janet, as she settled into her station. She knew exactly how unprepared the bridge crew was, and winced at the thought of having two rookies manning the weapons and systems stations.

“We haven’t done this in some time, you realize,” she went on. “Those poor fools can barely strap themselves into their seats, and I doubt we’ll impress anybody merely by snapping off a few of your fancy turns on the simulator. You covered that maneuver in the briefing book, and half of them have it mastered already. At least they have on the computer. I have my doubts that space will be quite so forgiving.”

“You underestimate their hunger to be impressed,” replied the Admiral, grinning wryly as he entered the code for a new battle problem. “And don’t forget who wrote all these simulations. It’s just too bad I can’t program the Cosmic Guard to be as slow moving, witless, and easy to hit as the three starships we’ll be going up against in the next few minutes.”

Despite herself, Janet found herself chuckling as the new simulation appeared on the screen. In all their years together, and whatever his other faults, the Skipper had never failed to keep her life interesting and exciting. At times too exciting. He might be stubborn, opinionated, and too absent-minded to remember to come home for dinner. But even if he was leading them to death and destruction, at least she wouldn’t die of boredom.
© 2012 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Chaos on the Bridge

Excerpted from The Guardians of Peace by Jeffrey Caminsky, published by New Alexandria Press.

From Chapter 6

“Helm, come to 220 north 15; Weapons, charge the shields, prepare to charge the forward guns.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Janet turned the command chair on the simulated bridge to face the portside screens. The simulation was turning into a disaster: none of the kids manning the bridge posts had the slightest notion of what to do. Anticipation meant nothing to them. They could barely anticipate their own bowel movements, let alone orders from the command chair. Nobody did anything without being told; they just sat there like lumps, waiting. And not a single one had the foresight to bring their lunch with them.

Like Nielsen, the rookie weapons officer sitting at his post with a confused look on his face. Obviously, the order to charge the shields had come as a shock to him. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have spent half a minute looking for the right switch when he had five whole minutes of helm maneuvers to ready his post for the simple act of activating the ship’s deflectors. Or Wasser, the systems officer—a nice enough kid: bright, intense, eager to please. But so reluctant to say anything without an invitation. Eisenberg, the navigator, seemed too addled to navigate his way out of a water closet. None of the more experienced people from the New Alexandria, their sister starship, seemed to know their way around a bridge, either. Fortunately, Tony Landis—the nitwit to whom her own husband had given command of the other starship—was drilling his people in Simulator Room Five, across the hall and mercifully out of earshot.

She didn’t know how the Skipper hoped to do anything with such a group, and she didn’t know what she was supposed to do with them, either. The thought of leading them into battle made her sick to the stomach. It didn’t help matters when Skipper disappeared for days at a time, leaving her to face every disaster all by herself. And he was a great one for leaving messages. Always leaving notes and little bits of paper stashed here and there. Do this—try that–-try some other silly thing, they’d all say. But just try to find him when there was work to be done. Or when something went wrong.

“Overtaking target,” reported the young systems officer. “Range one klick and closing.”

“Shields up, Commodore.”

“Charge all forward gun batteries.”

“Aye, Ma’am.”

“Range one-half klick and closing.”

“Fire in the hole, Ma’am,” called the weapons officer. Janet looked at the weapons display on the armrest, to see that the forward gun batteries were now fully operational.

“‘Guns amain’ is the proper prompt, Lieutenant,” said Janet, wondering if they’d actually hit something this time. She never got the chance to find out. “Prepare to fire on my command.”

“All hands, attention!” barked the security officer. As every other officer in the room scrambled to his feet, she heard a reassuringly familiar voice—though it reassured her only for a passing moment.

“Acch—as you were,” said the Admiral, smiling mysteriously as he moved toward the command seat. He squeezed Janet’s hand, and motioned for her to stay where she was. Momentarily flushed with delight at getting to see him, Janet was soon mad as a hornet at the interruption. She glared at him so angrily that Cook mistook the look for passionate devotion and smiled, moved at his wife’s display of affection.

Cook nodded, his sharp eyes moving from face to face as he studied and memorized the features and manner of each member he’d chosen for his bridge crew. Until now, he’d known them only from their work—the silent record of the progress of each officer, kept by the computer he’d programmed just for that purpose. He’d picked three for each station, and was still unsure whether this kind of blind selection would actually yield results. Personal profiles and simulated performances were handy tools, but they could never tell him how much steel was in anyone’s backbone, or how deep the blood flowed in someone’s heart. But he had no real choice. Time was short, and he had no other way to cull through the thousands of volunteers who’d flocked to join his Navy. And anyway, letting them sort themselves seemed like a good idea at the time. He tried his best to keep his doubts to himself, and smiled confidently as he addressed them. He’d always found the best way to face his own fears was to laugh at them, and was determined to help his bridge crew do the same.

“Good day to you all, and welcome to Panic Central,” he said, grinning as the room filled with nervous laughter. “First of all, let me apologize to each and every one of you, for dragging you into this. Usually I try to reward hard work, ability, and dedication, not punish it. And I won’t make any pretense about what we have facing us. It will be lots of stress, mind-numbing drills, and endless repetition. And at the end of it all, we get to let the Terrans try to kill us. Actually, now that I think of it, that’s not the sort of graduation party I’d ordinarily plan to attend.”

Cook looked around the room, letting the rising spirits of his crew begin to take on a life of its own. He could see that laughter was having an effect on his people, and smiled inwardly in satisfaction at the thought that he could still sense which strings to pull. “I suppose that wouldn’t be so bad, by itself,” he continued. “But it doesn’t give us a lot to look forward to. And of course, after we do somehow manage to live through it all, we’ll get to listen to all the preening politicians congratulate themselves on having the courage and vision to face down the Cosmic Guard. Maybe even allowing from time to time, that—well, yes, perhaps the Navy did have a tiny role to play in the whole affair. By the time it’s over I suspect it’ll be more than any of us will be able to stomach.

“Well, then,” he turned to wink at Janet, who was, for some reason he couldn’t understand, now glowering at him. As the crew’s laughter subsided, he shrugged and kept plodding along. “I suppose it’s time to get down to basics. As of tomorrow, we begin maneuvers in real ships, and out in real space. I’ll expect and demand more from this group than any other.

“I selected each of you for a particular reason—either a specialized skill I need, or a particular skill you’ve shown. Like any other assignment in my Navy, until the crisis has passed your job here will be the focus of your existence. Because you’ll be working at tasks that are among the most important in the whole Navy, I expect you to put your heart and soul into your efforts. You will arrive early for each day’s drilling; and you will stay late practicing, to remove any deficiencies that come to light during the day. You will—each of you—excel at your assignments, because I will tolerate nothing less, and because if you are not brilliant at your assigned task, Isis will crumble like dust in the heavens. And no matter how much despair you feel during the days to come, you will also look back on these next weeks as the most exciting, exhilarating, and inspiring days of your lives. You are part of a noble cause—one of the noblest in human history, like Old Earth’s crusade against the Nazis, or the American war against slavery. Every moment you spend honing your abilities and perfecting your skills is one more slap in the face of tyranny. And when the fighting starts, and Terran guns start blasting away, every second you’ve invested in yourself will come to pay dividends. In the heat of battle, everything you’ve learned will come pouring back into your hands and minds with amazing clarity.

“In three weeks, you’ll be able to stand against the best the Terrans have to throw at us. The Commodore and I will see to it—and mark my words, we will not let you shortchange yourselves, your homes, or your families. You may well come to hate us in the coming days. But when we lead you into battle, you’ll fight as warriors have always fought—with hearts aflame and heads held proud. And we mean to see that when the day of battle finally comes, each of you will have the tools and skills to battle on to victory.”

Cheers ringing in his ears, Cook turned to look at Janet, who was now smiling proudly despite her best efforts to stay annoyed.

“Now, I need two volunteers to man the systems and weapons stations. You two— ,” Cook pointed at the hapless pair still seated at the designated stations, holdovers from the drill Janet was conducting when Cook finally made his appearance. “You two stay where you are—and do try to pay attention. I get rather testy when my bridge crew fails to keep up the pace. The rest of you sit back; the Commodore and I will show you what a starship can really do.”

Cook stepped toward the navigator’s station, and motioned for Janet to join him at the helmsman’s console. As they took their seats, an audible murmur filled the entire bridge.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” whispered Janet, as she settled into her station. She knew exactly how unprepared the bridge crew was, and winced at the thought of having two rookies manning the weapons and systems stations.

“We haven’t done this in some time, you realize,” she went on. “Those poor fools can barely strap themselves into their seats, and I doubt we’ll impress anybody merely by snapping off a few of your fancy turns on the simulator. You covered that maneuver in the briefing book, and half of them have it mastered already. At least they have on the computer. I have my doubts that space will be quite so forgiving.”

“You underestimate their hunger to be impressed,” replied the Admiral, grinning wryly as he entered the code for a new battle problem. “And don’t forget who wrote all these simulations. It’s just too bad I can’t program the Cosmic Guard to be as slow moving, witless, and easy to hit as the three starships we’ll be going up against in the next few minutes.”

Despite herself, Janet found herself chuckling as the new simulation appeared on the screen. In all their years together, and whatever his other faults, the Skipper had never failed to keep her life interesting and exciting. At times too exciting. He might be stubborn, opinionated, and too absent-minded to remember to come home for dinner. But even if he was leading them to death and destruction, at least she wouldn’t die of boredom.

© 2012 by Jeffrey Caminsky

The Hapless Volunteer

Excerpted from The Guardians of Peace by Jeffrey Caminsky, published by New Alexandria Press.

from Chapter 3

Jogging down the rampway, his legs unstiffening with each step he took, Jack Markham didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. Washing out of the Navy was not the achievement of a lifetime. He knew that sitting around, unable to do anything to protect his wife and children, would drive him crazy. On the other hand, he had lots of company. At least he wouldn’t have to face a lifetime of doubts and self-torment, just because he didn’t give it a try. Juggling his bag to keep it from falling as he ran, Jack smiled lamely at the young woman manning the turnstile, who was urging him on with a wide, beckoning wave.

“Hurry!” she shouted. “You’ve got just enough time to make it!”

Unfortunately, his duffle bag had other ideas. As he stepped up his pace, the seam in his bag gave way, spilling the contents along his path and tangling his feet among a cascading pair of sweatpants. Plunging headlong onto the rampway, he landed face-first at the feet of the pretty girl who was doing her best to keep from laughing at the young man who had just fallen in defense of his homeland.

“Let—let me—let me help,” she stammered, trying to let the washout keep as much of his dignity as possible. Reaching down to help collect his belongings, she couldn’t stand the strain any longer, and collapsed in laughter onto the ramp. The clearing bell sounded to announce the departure of the shuttle to Isis.

Rolling dejectedly onto his back, Jack reflected that this was one day he’d rather forget. His only accomplishments had been washing out of the Navy, and missing the ship home. It was a fine thing, escaping the chance to die at the hands of the Terries only to give his wife an excuse to kill him, for keeping her waiting at the spaceport.

“When does the next— ” he began.

“Not until tomorrow, I’m afraid,” said the young ensign, helping Jack collect his things.

“Is there any place— ?”

“Just go back to your barracks. They’ll be glad to put you up for one more day.”

“This isn’t— ”

“The first time this has happened?” She smiled and shook her head. “People miss their connections all the time. Of course, not many manage to do so with quite as much style.”

Jack felt his face turning red as he chuckled along with his companion. But everyone always said that laughing at yourself was better than letting others laugh at you alone. He was starting to have his doubts about that.

“This has to be the most embarrassing day in my entire life,” he said at last, hoping that his pretty young companion would take some pity on him. “Christ—I doubt very much more could happen to me today.”

“Actually,” began the turnstile keeper, only to stop in midsentence. Jack knew at once that he should let things lie. Despite what his wife and family said about him, he had a keen sense of people and his surroundings and sensed that the turnstile attendant was doing her best to spare him further grief. It was just that damned curiosity. That’s what always led him further into trouble. Not a general obtuseness, as his wife always told him.

“What?” he demanded. “What is it? You may as well tell me. Things can’t possibly get any worse for me, you know.”

“Well—you didn’t just miss the shuttle.”

“Of course I just missed the shuttle. Got tied up by some damn fool pencil-pusher with a wad of paperwork to fill out. Then I got shunted to the back of the mess line—only to have them run out of corn, leaving us standing for an extra twenty minutes while they boiled up some more. One minute earlier, and I wouldn’t have had to rush quite so much. And if I hadn’t been rushing.... ”

“No, I mean, the shuttle wasn’t all you missed,” the young lady winced visibly as she smiled. Jack could tell he’d regret asking, but couldn’t stop himself.

“So what else went wrong for me?”

“You missed him. He was here. He sometimes comes to thank the washouts for their efforts, you know. Today was one of those days. He stopped by to help send off the shuttle.”

“Who?”

“Well, the Admiral, of course.”

Jack groaned to himself. Now his day was complete. One chance to make the Navy—one chance to make it back home—and one chance, probably his only chance, to see the man trying to reconstitute the whole hash. Three chances up, three chances gone. Just like a game of rounders, except that rounders didn’t make him sick to his stomach.

“How often....”

The young lady smiled sadly. “Not very. Once a week, sometimes twice. Sorry.”

“Well,” Jack snorted, swinging his duffle over his back, “I hope the Navy has better luck with the Terries than I’ve had with the Navy.”

“Couldn’t be much worse, you know.”

“Thanks, Missey,” Jack laughed, starting back up the ramp toward the main concourse. “You’re a real boost for morale.”

“We each serve in our own way, you know.”

“Yeah. And I bet they don’t do it this way in the Cosmic Guard, either.”

“At least you got the lingo down pretty well.”

“It was the only thing about this ordeal that didn’t involve sending something spinning. Whether it was my brain, or various body parts.”

“Good luck to you.”

“These days, we all need some, Missey. The whole planet needs some.”


© 2012 by Jeffrey Caminsky

The Interstellar Navy

Excerpted from The Guardians of Peace by Jeffrey Caminsky, published by New Alexandria Press.

From Chapter 4

ARNOLD WASSER felt his heart racing. He wanted to shout, but didn’t want to make a fool of himself. It was nearly shift change, and there were already several other young officers in the simulation room. The last thing he needed was to attract a crowd to watch him squander another chance to beat the computer.

Freezing the action on the screen, he stopped to consider the problem: the furious battle raging in the middle of his screen. The computer, playing Blue—Isis was always blue; it was the Admiral’s favorite color— was pressing the attack, throwing all its reserves into the center of the Red line. It was the same problem that was giving everyone trouble: the Computer was a master at concentrating its attack and finding the weakest point in the Red defenses. If he moved a regiment of Red frigates from his flank toward the center of battle, he might tip the balance. But if his line buckled, as it always did, one flank would be badly undermanned and no match for a concentrated enemy assault, as every ensign in the fleet had discovered. On the other hand, the center of the Red line was already showing signs of stress; if Blue kept attacking, the enemy forces would eventually puncture his defenses. And yet his own force outnumbered the remaining Blue fleet by a substantial margin. There should be a way for him to beat the machine this time, he thought. There simply had to be a way.

“Save screen,” he told the computer; instantly, the battle etched itself into the vast electronic brain of the Central Computer, letting him experiment with another approach. Shaking his head in frustration, he decided to press ahead.

“Resume—no, freeze!”

Suddenly, Wasser had an idea. No, he told himself—not so much an idea as a hunch. He remembered the informal talk the Admiral had given his training class, and his lesson on the advantage of doing the unexpected. If redeploying from the flanks would lead to disaster, and holding the line would lead to disaster, then the answer had to be something else. Something so obvious that everyone would miss it. Fighting every instinct in his head, he decided to cede the center of the line to Blue and withdraw his ships to either flank. Taking a deep breath, the young cadet entered the order codes, and resumed the battle. As he watched the Blue ships pour through the opening, he suddenly saw how to beat them: with their enemy gone from the center, the point of the Blue formation had nothing to stop it. At once, he gave the command for his ships to attack—and watched as the Red fleet proceeded to destroy the distended enemy line.

As the computer took control, sending the Red ships after the remnants of the Blue fleet, the images of battle faded, replaced by a familiar face.

“Well done,” said the image of Admiral Cook. “This is your second victory over the Blue fleet—or, to put it more precisely, the second time you managed to avoid defeat. And that, more often than not, is what separates the hero from the imbecile, the successful commander from one who dies along with his command.”

“You’ve passed the first major hurdle on your way to becoming a real combat officer. You’ve learned to analyze the enemy’s problem, and see things from his perspective. Now you’re ready to experiment with our side of the problem.

“Your access code will now let you command either fleet—Red or Blue—at your discretion. I know that every young officer wants to do his part to beat back the Terran threat. Now you have your chance. I ask only that you not share your code with any of your comrades. Like you, they have a lot to learn, and little time left to do it. But advancement in my Navy must be earned. If they can’t master the problem from the Terran perspective, they won’t be much help in developing solutions to our own tactical dilemmas.

“One last thing—and I say this only to keep you from getting too cocky. These battle simulations can help prepare you to face the Terrans when they finally come. I’ve devised many of the problems myself, and some of them come from actual battles. You can also set your own battle scenarios from now on, to experiment with tactics, practice problems that are giving you trouble, or see how some of the maneuvers you’re practicing will look when seen in the grander scheme of things. But always remember this: the computer can play at twenty different levels for these simulated battles—and there are five more levels beyond that, requiring my own personal password to enter. Each level is more demanding than the last. You just passed Level Two, and the computer will never let you practice that level again. From now on, the machine will get better and faster with each step. And we don’t know which level will approximate the Terran commander.

“Of course, I have my own opinions about the matter,” the Admiral’s eyes twinkled. “But that’s none of your concern.”

Suddenly the image on the screen, the stern but patient face of Admiral Cook, seemed to look directly into the young man’s eyes.

“Congratulations, once more,” the Admiral said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “ Now, Ensign—enough of this chit-chat. It’s time for you to get back to work.”

As the image faded, Ensign Wasser felt himself soaring through the heavens like a mighty starship. For the next three hours, he kept plotting battle after battle on the screen, never noticing how quickly the time was passing.

* * *

The Galaxy’s bound for disaster

And colder than Death is the Sky,

But I volunteered to be up here

So what kind of prat-head am I?

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee, to thee.

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee.

ENSIGN GEOFFREY JASON plopped down on his bunk and closed his eyes, the sounds of laughter and singing from the hallway still ringing in his ears. Without doubt, this had been the worst day of his twenty-two year old life. Dragged out of bed while his brain was screaming for sleep, he’d spent the next eighteen hours running in lockstep with a whole company of officer candidates—from drill station to drill station. Without a second to call his own, his brain was pummeled on all sides by formations, protocols, and battle tactics—all attacking relentlessly, giving him no time to absorb what was going on around him. He’d foolishly spent his two hours of free time running a simulator drill, trying to lead the Terran attack fleet against the Isitian Navy, and doing rather a poor job of it. He wondered if he’d been better off hanging out in the galley, instead—though it seemed to him that the mess hall food was designed largely to keep the recruits at the simulators. Now that he finally had some free time, he was too tired to do anything but drift off to sleep.

The Heavens hold dangers and sadness

And storm clouds and rocks and debris,

And we all signed up for this madness

So what kind of prat-heads are we?

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee, to thee.

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee.

Jason took a deep breath to relax, and felt himself drifting—drifting off to sleep....

“Ow—ww!” he cried sharply, awaking to find some idiot’s foot rising off his stomach. Pulling down sharply on the offending leg, he soon found himself engaged in a tug of war with its owner.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” came a voice from the upper bunk.

“Who the hell told you to use my belly for a trampoline?”

“Let go.”

“Come back down here and learn to get up properly.”

“Let go.”

“Come down here, before we’re both washed out of the service.”

As his roommate eased himself off the bunk, and the sleepiness left his head, Jason found himself feeling quite foolish. Obviously, the oaf didn’t mean to wake him. By the looks of it, the poor fellow was just as tired as he was, and probably would have preferred not climbing into an upper bunk.

Taking a step back, the young man smiled sheepishly and extended his hand. “Lund,” he said, his voice carrying a trace of a Highlander accent. “Jay Lund. Sorry if I disturbed you. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Jason grinned and shook the fellow’s hand. “Jason,” he said, shaking his head. “Given the workout they gave us today, I doubt if I’d do much better.”

“Southlander?”

Jason nodded. “New Alexandria, born and bred.”

“I’m from the Hill Country.”

“You seem to have a problem scaling heights, Lund.”

The young man laughed, then took a step back, and leaped up to the top berth with a single bound, giving the bunk quite a jolt as he came to rest. Peeking down from the upper bunk, he laughed roughly.

“I was really trying not to disturb you, you know.”

“What group— ?”

“Company 17, Battlegroup J.”

“I’m Battlegroup A. As in asleep, sound asleep. I hope our schedules aren’t going to clash. I’d hate to go through this every day.”

“I’m too tired to worry about it just now.”

“You’re not the one who’s going to have his stomach trampled.”

“You’re the one who chose the lower bunk.”

* * *

With future uncertain and hazy

The Terries are heading our way.

Invading a planet that’s crazy—

Now what kind of prat-heads are they?

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee, to thee.

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee.

The warning buzzer sounded, letting Greg Garrity know that his shields were buckling. Trying to ignore the sounds from the nearby bar, he focused his attention on the lone enemy escort, approaching from astern. He’d already given up trying to muscle his way through the exercise once again. Now, he just wanted to keep his streak intact. No other ensign had managed to avoid destruction for more than ten consecutive missions; he’d already passed number eighteen, and had his sights set on twenty. But first, he had to escape the trap the computer had set for him.

The game terminals were a popular gathering spot for off-duty officers and enlisteds. The bar at the other end of the room served the coldest beer and least objectionable food on the base. Once done with their drills and training for the day, those of all ranks never tired of joining one another for food and company. But no matter the hour, there were always one or two young naval officers who couldn’t pass up the chance to show off. Especially when some of the prettier female officers showed up, dressed in civies and ready for a night out.

Greener than green are her forests

And bluer than blue is her sea,

In all of Creation the fairest

And home to such bounders as we—

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee, to thee

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee.

Pulling his own ship into a wicked turn, Garrity passed out of the killing zone as his last shield collapsed, narrowly missing a full broadside from the enemy leader. Staying just beyond range of the enemy’s wing, he focused his approach on the single escort blocking his escape route. If he could blow past it, he knew, he’d live to fight again, and keep his string going; if not, he had to start over, with a new record to shoot at—this time, his own.

“Look at him,” came a female voice, from over his shoulder. “He’s doing it again.”

“Naw,” scoffed one of his own buddies. “He’s about to self-destruct. Watch.”

Ignoring the distraction, the stocky young ensign concentrated on the escort laying just to port. As it banked over, trying to intercept him, Garrity gunned his engines and veered sharply—first to starboard, trying to get the computer to commit to an attack, then to port, cutting behind the escort and into the open skies beyond. Suddenly, the escort lay directly before him, its open broadside beckoning to his own still-charged guns. Pulling the trigger, he saw the image of the enemy escort explode on the screen. Finally, he steered his own ship through the electronic dust and smoke, and out of danger.

Some things can never be righted

And some things can never be wrong,

So let’s go where all are invited

For laughter, companions, and song.

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee, to thee.

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee.

“Lucky bastard!” one of his friends shouted, slapping him on the back. “Steps right into it, and still comes out smelling like a rose. I think he’s forgotten how it feels to get his ass kicked.”

Garrity leaned back in his chair, and locked his hands behind his head. “Can’t help it,” he grinned, winking at the young female officer candidate hovering at the edge of the crowd. “Of course, some things you never forget.”

“I have ten credits that say you can’t make it all the way to twenty-five,” said his friend.

“If your money’s as dumb as you are, Randy O’Dell, it’ll be like stealing from a kid.”

“Your luck running out?”

“You’re on.”

“And somebody fetch this bounder a beer—we may need to handicap him to keep down the odds!”


© 2012 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Crisis on Isis

Excerpted from The Guardians of Peace by Jeffrey Caminsky, published by New Alexandria Press.

from Chapter 3

Seated at the conference table, George McKenzie felt his heart sink. The squabbling had gone on for the better part of the month and showed no signs of stopping. But he was tired—tired of fighting this battle all alone. And tired of grappling with his own doubts, his own fears. He had nothing to go on but faith in their cause, and in their commander. And faith, it seemed, was in short supply these days. He was one of a dwindling number of friends the Admiral still had among the Inner Sanctum. He was even starting to wonder whether the Chancellor might be harboring second thoughts about the matter, as well.

The sun, low in the crisp, morning sky, cast a warm glow into the inner office. Looking smaller and frailer than McKenzie had ever noticed before, Irene McGinnis, the Chancellor, peered out through the large bay window onto the gardens, damp from the winter rains. She seemed preoccupied, as if paying no attention to the bitter argument raging among her most trusted advisors.

“I’m telling you, it is a catastrophe in the making!” thundered Reginald Ross, the energetic young Minister of State. “Mark my words. History will not be kind to us, Irene. To have come so close—so very close, indeed—only to waste our chance like this. If it weren’t so tragic it would be downright laughable.”

“And to top it all off,” agreed David Henderson, the Chancellor’s Chief of Staff, “we can’t even breathe a word of this. Every way we look, we’re simply cut off. Confront the problem publicly and we start a panic.”

“Ignore it,” continued Ross, “and we may be little more than accomplices to our own destruction.”

“And let’s not forget who’s standing in the wings,” added Hender¬son, “just waiting for us to stumble. He may have changed his tune in the last month—he can’t undercut us now, without going after his own flesh and blood, thank God for small favors. But his stock across the aisle has risen fast in the last few weeks.”

“Well, David, you don’t have to explain the facts of life to the Chancellor.”

“No, Reggie, there’s where you’re wrong.” The Chancellor turned and walked back toward her bickering senior advisors, her eyes set like granite. For the first time in ages, McKenzie thought, it was the Irene McInnis of old returned to them. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to spell it out completely for me. Because, you see, I’m just a foolish old woman. And I’m not about to let this one slip by me because I’m not as quick on the uptake as I used to be. So please explain yourself, if you would.”

Now it was Ross’ turn to feel the gnawing of uncertainty. But his misgivings weren’t about whether he was actually right or wrong. It was so clear to him. So simple, so inevitable, and so devastatingly logical. His only real doubt was whether he would win this battle for the Chancellor’s ear. For the first time, he sensed the depth of her own feelings in the matter.

“A number of things disturb me, Madam Chancellor,” Ross said, his eyes hard and uncompromising. “His refusal to meet with us, I suppose we could ascribe to temperament— although, as you recall, I predicted that he would stand us up again, today. His refusal to answer any of our questions— ”

“Any of your questions,” the Chancellor corrected, with a wry smile.

“It does not appear that he is forthcoming about his plans, his schedules, or his intentions,” Ross continued. “And that makes me extremely concerned about the direction he is taking us.”

McInnis walked to a large chair beside the fireplace, and bade her senior advisors to do likewise. “You know what I think, Reggie? I do believe that you are jealous. You and David both. And I think this whole episode is nothing more than resentment over the fact that he cancelled your project to refurbish the New Alexandria without troubling to let you and your friends from Highland Technologies talk him out of it.”

“Madame Chancellor—!”

“Oh, put your eyeballs back in their sockets, Mr. Minister,” laughed McInnis. “I have seen more jealousy these past few weeks than I have in my whole career. And that includes,” she continued, her eyes full of mischief, watching for the Minister of State’s reaction to what she had to say, “more than a decade in Covington, watching the Terran Senate in their annual backstabbing rituals, grubbing for Federal money and preening for the cameras. I have no illusions, Reginald Ross—not about you, not about me, not about anyone involved in any aspect of any government, anywhere in Creation.”

“Have you forgotten exactly who his uncle is?”

“Cornelius Cook is a great many things,” the Chancellor replied coldly. “He is, in my estimation, the shrewdest member of the Opposition. He is also a rogue, an opportunist, and a political chameleon. He will say or do anything for partisan advantage. And he is now, poor soul, finding his chickens coming home to roost in a flock, ever since his nephew assumed command of the Interstellar Navy. He cannot attack our preparations for defense without looking like an ingrate and an idiot. But he cannot make people forget about his loud and windy opposition to funding the Navy in the first place without attacking our preparations as somehow inadequate. It is, Mr. Minister, a politician’s nightmare—and frankly, I don’t think Senator Cook is worth one jot of bother at the moment, whatever the opinion polls might show.”

“If he gets wind of the cancellation— ”

“Well, Reggie, I’m certainly not going to tell him.”

“It will come up in the annual budget....”

“Mr. Minister,” the Chancellor scoffed, “by next year’s budget report, I fully expect that we will all be heroes—and the last thing the Opposition will want to talk about is whether we managed to spend quite all of the money we twisted arms hither and yon getting the Senate to authorize. Either that, or we will not be troubling ourselves very much about partisan politics, because we’ll all be dead at the hands of a Terran invasion force, or rotting away in some Terry prison awaiting trial for treason.”

“And what about his nephew? Can you be sure of his real reasons for the cancellation? And don’t you think he’s likely to leak this whole business, if only to pass a crumb to his own flesh and blood?”

Smiling sweetly, the Chancellor leaned forward, her dainty hands folded demurely across her lap, her steel-blue eyes skewering the soul of her Minister of State.

“Minister Ross,” she began quietly. “Among your responsibilities are state security, and in that capacity I have full confidence that you will bring to my attention anything that might pose a threat to our young and fragile Republic. But before you continue, I wish to share something with you.

“I have met and worked with thousands of men over the years. I have been impressed by few, and have admired fewer still. For your future reference, you should know that Admiral Cook happens to be the bravest, most honest man I have met in my lifetime. And I will hear nothing said against him in my presence.

“I don’t know why he scotched the renovation project. He hasn’t seen fit to share it with me—and I, for one, am reluctant to take up his time just now, dealing with what is, in the final analysis, largely a matter of politics. It would have been splendid, if he could have joined us today. I am sure that we all would have found whatever he told us to be positively exhilarating, if a little on the daunting side. But I am also quite unwilling to trouble him about the matter. For you see, Mr. Minister, I understand what it means for him to have the weight of a world crushing down upon his shoulders. And I will do nothing—nothing!—to increase that weight by so much as an ounce.”

Ross flushed a deep crimson and took a deep, bitter breath.

“Now, have I made myself sufficiently clear?”

“Yes, Madam Chancellor,” he replied.

“And was there anything else you wished to say on the subject?”

“No, Madam Chancellor.”

As proudly as they could, Henderson and Ross took their leave, and left the Chancellor’s office to walk down the Grand Hall, toward the Ministry of State. The Chancellor waited until the door had closed behind them before sinking back into her chair and closing her tired, misting eyes.

“I’m too old for this, George,” she sighed, her voice hiding the hint of a quiver. “I should be off somewhere, tending my garden and spoiling my grandchildren.”

“It should be over in a few months, Irene,” McKenzie said softly. “You can hang on until then. If you can still make the likes of Reggie Ross feel like a naughty schoolboy caught peeking up a little girl’s dress—well then, I’d say Old Ironpanties hasn’t lost all that much, over the years.”

McInnis opened her reddening eyes and smiled. “It’s been years since I’ve heard that name.”

“I’m sure they still fit, you know. Granted, you’re a bit older than that sunny, ravishing lass of years past. And I fancy you may have drooped a bit here and there. But you really haven’t gained all that much, near as I can tell. And you still have the prettiest legs of any girl in town.”

“Oh—stop it, George!” the Chancellor sniffed, hoping very much that he would do nothing of the kind.

“I don’t know how we’ve come this far,” he whispered. “But nobody else could have kept it all together. And I don’t know anybody else on this planet who can keep us all pulling in the same direction.

“Just hang in there, Irene. A few more months, that’s all we need. Then, you can finally be glad you waited all these years to finish your memoirs.”

The Chancellor closed her eyes and nodded, wishing to heaven that she could just crawl into her nice, warm bed and sleep for a hundred years.


© 2012 by Jeffrey Caminsky

The Guardians of Peace: Prologue

Excerpted from The Guardians of Peace by Jeffrey Caminsky, published by New Alexandria Press.

Prologue

“And still the question remains,” snapped the young man. “Is Khu’ukh dead, or is it a trap?”

Taking a deep breath, Ga’Glish calmed himself enough to continue. “You see our predicament, Zatar. The longer we delay, the more suffering our people must endure and the further the Terran fleets will push into the surrounding skies. Yet if the reports are meant to deceive us—”

“Yes,” interrupted the slender young Crutchtan. “But whatever once passed between them, and however wise the Veshnan Solan may be, his speculation about the matter can be no more productive than our own.”

As Ga’Glish snorted impatiently, Zatar of Ib’leiman could only smile in grim amusement. He had heard much about this young Crutchtan, whose gifts had brought hope to the Alliance just when all had seemed lost. Yet the lad seemed to care little for the niceties of form that had always made visits with Crutchtan dignitaries seem so endless. It was a refreshing change, though it did little to improve the humor of their small gathering. The fact that the young man was right made the mood even more somber.

“After our guest has traveled all this way to lend us his insights,” hissed Ga’Glish, “you cannot even have the courtesy to hear what he has to say?”

Before the lad could respond, the Veshnan intervened to rescue the youth from the lad’s inexperience and breach of etiquette. “I draw no insult, my old friend,” Zatar smiled pleasantly. “Please take no offense on my behalf. And young fa’Shenali is quite right—for while I came to know the Terran quite well, the culture of his people was, and remains, a mystery to me. I know only that deception forms a large part of their dealings among themselves. And in battle, it seems that my Terran friend proved to be quite a master of the art himself—so much so that, I must confess, his actions were those of a stranger to me.”

“So you agree,” said fa’Shenali, his voice little more than a whisper. “This could well be the sort of deception that Khu’ukh might engineer, drawing us into the open so that he can strike a final, lethal blow. One from which, given the fact that our reserves are depleted and we have no margin for error, we would never recover.”

Zatar drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could scarcely imagine the horrors that would follow in the wake of such a disaster. It was apparent that the young Crutchtan spoke directly from his heart. Despite the success of recent weeks, Zatar had no doubt that they remained in mortal danger, and one misdirected step could bring destruction to all they had ever known.

“That sort of deception seems alien to me,” Zatar replied at last. “So alien that I cannot discount the possibility, even as it seems to make little sense.”

“There is another facet to our problem,” Ga’Glish added.

“And what is that, my old friend?”

“We have actually intercepted two separate reports from Terran transmissions, Zatar—which offer conflicting and contradictory explanations for his absence from the fighting. Both report the same result, but I find myself wondering what each may say about the future.”

“The first report,” fa’Shenali interjected, “says that the One Called Khu’ukh is missing and presumed killed while traveling from a consultation with senior commanders to the battle of Denlubi, lost in the eddies of the nearby vortex. It is the explanation that the Terran military leaders have passed among themselves. And we have intercepted similar reports in many different sectors— ”

“As have others of the Alliance,” added Ga’Glish.

“The other report,” fa’Shenali whispered, “we have intercepted only once— ”

“Though on a high-security channel, one that we have been able to penetrate only intermittently.”

“All these reports have come only on military channels, not on their civilian broadcasts,” the younger Crutchtan snapped. “And all could easily have been left unencrypted just to ensure that we would be able to decipher their message.”

“Far be it for me to interrupt,” Zatar tried to intercede.

“The fact that these reports appear only on military channels means nothing,” countered Ga’Glish.

“It means everything!” retorted fa’Shenali.“It means that the information is entirely under the control of their commanders, and is not being told to their people. Given what is at stake, it means that I will give neither report any credence. Not unless we find some way to confirm it.”

“The second report...?” Zatar tried once again, astonished at his hosts’ display of temper. Crutchtans were ordinarily so outwardly stoic. Even filtered through the translators, this was an unprecedented display of emotion for any Crutchtan to show.

Nodding in silence, the younger Crutchtan lowered his head. Ga’Glish took a long, deep breath and continued.

“The second report contains the seeds of mystery as well as promise,” said the elder. “We have one source, consisting of an intercepted conversation between two high-ranking military officials, discussing the manner of his death. But this account suggests that the Terran leadership killed him themselves, while he was traveling a great distance to the west...and seeking to aid his home planet in a rebellion against the central Terran government.”

“What!”

“Our linguists have checked their translations, and are positive that this interpretation is correct....”

“They are certain that they understand the gist of the conversation,” added fa’Shena¬li, his voice now milder and under control. “The truth of account, however, is open to question.”

“For obvious reasons, we are releasing none of this,” said Ga’Glish. “Rumors of this sort could have wildly unpredictable results. And if fa’Shenali’s worries prove correct, they would have a devastating impact on our morale at a time and place of the Terrans’ own choosing. And we have no doubt that the time they chose would be precisely when another change in fortunes would prove most disastrous for the Alliance.”

“What are the implications—,” Zatar began.

“We have other references in their civilian broadcasts to some sort of uprising or insurrection— ” Ga’Glish interrupted.

“—of unknown size and origin,” added fa’Shenali.

“—suggesting that there may be some Terran elements sympathetic to our own cause.”

“We don’t know where, or how we might contact them— ”

“But we think we have enough evidence to believe that they exist, either now or in the recent past.”

“And if he was trying to join them....,” Zatar whispered.

“From a strictly military standpoint,” said fa’Shenali, “it makes no immediate difference how he died—so long as he is, in truth, dead. Whether by accident, or at their own hands, if he is no longer able to assume command of any Terran fleet, then we are free to press our attack without fear that he will appear at our most vulnerable moment and destroy us. As soon as we can confirm that he is no longer a threat...well, then all things are possible.”

“But in a larger sense,” said Ga’Glish, “it makes a great deal of difference to know whether Khu’ukh died returning to the battle, or was murdered by his own kind. For if he was willing to join some kind of rebellion, then the discontent among the Terrans may well be more widespread than we allow ourselves to believe at present. It means that some elements of Terran society may be willing to help us. And it may give us additional options for the future.”

“More than this,” Zatar nodded thoughtfully. “The knowledge that at the end he had joined with us would give us an inestimable boost to our own flagging spirits.” Privately, he had the passing thought that it also meant that he could mourn an old friend, rather than rejoicing at the death of a merciless enemy.

“But at present, this is all fond hopes and idle speculation,” said fa’Shenali. “It solves too many of our problems, and toys with too many of our emotions, to make me think that it is anything but a Terran ploy.”

“And so...?”

“And so, if you have any opinions to offer....”

“I am afraid, my friends, that all I can offer are good hopes for the future, and wishful speculation.”

As his elders continued their discussion, Fa’Shenali took a deep breath and looked at the floor in contemplation. They had accomplished much, but there remained much to be done. And so long as this particular phantom remained in the shadows, he was determined to keep their progress cautious and slow, no matter how much Ga’Glish and the rest of the High Command called upon him for action. Even across the gulf of space and war and culture, the One Called Khu’ukh had proved an inspired teacher, even if his lessons were always written in blood. And though fa’Shen¬ali had learned those lessons well, he still felt like a young one in his first year of school. He would risk much when pitted against the slower, duller students in class; but he alone knew how terrified he was at the thought of confronting the headmaster.

Though hailed as a hero by his own people, and called a savior by the Imperator himself, the young man felt lost and alone in a universe that seemed to know only sadness and tragedy. Like Zatar, fa’Shenali was surprised to discover that among his fondest hopes was that this alien teacher of his had died not as an enemy, but as a friend. Yet in his heart, the young man’s greatest fear was that the master would soon return to show his most pretentious student just how much there was to the art of war that remained for the young man to learn.

© 2012 by Jeffrey Caminsky