Chapter 1 Excerpt
EXCITED CHATTER AND boisterous laughter filled the Academy’s auditorium as a gathering of enthused, and relieved, military graduates waited for their commencement ceremony to begin—surrounded by empty tiers of seating. They stood proud in their dashing blue Class-D Uniform, having gone through hell to don such a distinction. With the uniform’s elegant service jacket, men wore creased pants and glossy black shoes; women wore skirts, stockings, and matte black heels. A single insignia on the standing collar denoted rank. The crimson hash marks on the sleeves indicated lower enlisted. And the white waist-length cape symbolized righteousness—what a Guardian embodied.
Momentarily, these young cadets would be officially inducted into the Commonwealth Defense Force (CDF), becoming the newest defenders of humanity’s intergalactic republic—a republic fraught with homicidal war. Not the least bit interested in joining the preceremonial gabfest, twenty-two-year-old Cadet Randal Scott secluded himself in a lonesome corner. Arms crossed, eyes shut, and chin tilted to his chest, his thoughts were preoccupied with delivering retribution to the traitor for his mother’s death and defilement of his family’s legacy. The man who’d been a decorated serviceman, the man he had admired, the man who raised him was a disgrace; and his sins could never be atoned for, in Randy’s eyes.
Being Linked (cerebrally linked) with his mother as she was atomized from existence, he had inherited a well of mental unsoundness. Psychological experts claimed that if a loved one’s passing was inhumane and brutal, being Linked during their demise could cause long-lasting psychic trauma, if psychological treatment was prolonged. The sharing of thoughts, emotions, and memories—through implantation of a nanochip beyond human ingenuity—could only be credited to the Commonwealth’s Union-approved trading partner, the Quilgarians. A Link with another human being—upon mutually granted access—expanded rapport-building, empathy, and understanding on levels incapable of actualization during humanity’s bygone Earth Era. And such mental communion enabled parents to cultivate deeper bonds with their offspring.
Randy’s psych evaluation for CDF admission was administered before the murder; no one but him, his aunt, and his closest peer, Cadet Stacie Spencer, knew he was Linked with his mother when she was obliterated. A new psych eval and some therapy would benefit him, but he couldn’t risk a mental-health discharge, not until he made the bastard pay.
The skin between Randy’s brows crinkled as kind memories of the treacherous one, his father, antagonized his mind. Why? he wondered. Reminiscing his mother’s funeral, the repulsion on his face worsened, twofold.
He’d had the utmost respect for his father, Captain Arson Scott. The man was once a common laborer slaving in the quarries of Colony Four, on mankind’s secondary world, a ringed planet designated Satellite One. He later met the woman who would become his wife, Kathleen Warner, and then followed in the footsteps of his father, and his father before him. He abandoned the drudgery of the quarry pits and answered a higher calling, enlisting into the military to assuage his yearning to be of service to humanity and ensure the livelihood of his wife and son. He forged an esteemed military career in the CDF, fighting in the Phazharian and Bhalkran wars and earning the highest commendation awarded, the Commonwealth Meritorious Service Medal.
Randy’s admiration of his father motivated him to enlist into the Defense Force. The revered war hero had made his family and compatriots proud. Then, roughly six months ago, he mysteriously went AWOL, disappearing from his command post. Rumors and accusations of Arson Scott joining the terrorist insurgency, which opposes the Commonwealth Government today, circulated throughout Eden and the colonies of Satellite One. Randy later witnessed his father partake in Kathleen’s murder, after his disappearance had crushed her, inducing worry, grief, and bouts of depression, which Randy experienced in unison through their Link. At times Kathleen would raise her firewalls to spare Randy’s mind from being immersed in her personal distress.
Vengeance became Randy’s new motivation for enlisting and fueled his drive to persevere through the harshness of Basic Combat Training. Withstanding days on end of intense mental and physical rigors, powering through injury and illness, his yen to see Arson pay gnawed at his conscience. Determined to excel, he graduated from BCT as Warrior Extraordinaire, a recognition of outstanding achievement earned by performing at an exemplary level. Now he stands ready to take the Guardian’s Oath, so he can finally quell the outrage burning in his soul, by putting an end to Arson Scott—whether it be by death or capture. Preferably the former.
A cherubic female voice drifted into his mind, saying, Randy, it’s me, honey. Soft and soothing, the voice unmistakably belonged to . . .
Randy’s eyes shot open. A luminescent, ghostly mirage of his mother was shimmying in front of him. She was wearing a simple blue dress decorated with lavender flower patterns. It was one of her favorite outfits, Randy recalled.
Leave the past in the past, Randy, Kathleen pled. This vendetta of yours is decaying your soul. Move on.
Randy shut his eyes. Go away. You’re just an apparition conjured by all the pain and trauma recycled by my cerebral implant, just a metaphysical figment of my subconscious spawned by alien tech that got overloaded with an influx of horror. You’re the part of me wondering what my mother would say about me hunting down Dad. You’re the boy in me crying for her to still be here, even if as some untouchable guardian angel. You are . . . my personal damnation.
Randy, please . . .
Go away! he demanded.
The voice disappeared. Randy realized these recurring manifestations of pain and longing in the image of his mother might be a sign the trauma was indeed driving him mad. Maybe his unconquerable rage and thirst to eradicate his father was another red alert. He decided he’d gladly risk a lifetime of psychological damage if killing his father brought serenity to his tortured soul.
A white-gloved hand clasped Randy’s padded shoulder from behind. His eyes flicked open. On reflex, he spun, jerking his shoulder loose.
Smack dab in his face was a smashing blonde woman with sun-kissed skin and the bluest of cobalt eyes, greeting him with a lovely red smile, which exposed her perfect snow-white teeth. She was Stacie Spencer, his peer, confidant, and significant other, and the only other class member to earn the mantle of Warrior Extraordinaire. <Hey, you okay, Randy?> the spirited young woman inquired, in a cheery voice, through their Link.
Unrelated persons permitting access to each other’s cerebral implant was one of the foremost acts of intimacy among the New Humanity, topping or rivaling a touch, a kiss, or intercourse. Access to a cerebral implant was entry into the mind—a bridge into a wondrous symbiotic experience. That access established an interconnectedness like no other. Proper-consent classes informed people to grant such privilege with extreme discretion. And even with consent given, the granter could elect to safeguard specific feelings or memories, allowing them to lower their boundaries at a comfortable pace.
Stacie’s brows quirked in confusion. “Why are you over here brooding?” she asked Randy aloud. “This is what we busted our asses for. Put some pride on that handsome mug of yours, Mr. Gloomy Face.” She playfully bumped her knuckles against his chest.
Though still perturbed, Randy dismissed her concern, in a neutral tone. “I’m fine, Cadet Spencer.” At the moment, there was no exorcising the anger plaguing his mind. Not here. Not in the very same auditorium he stood holding his mother’s hand as a young boy happily watching his father swear to uphold the oath he was now about to take.
“Did you just call me ‘Cadet Spencer?’” Stacie said in a feigned satirical tone, as if he had committed a heinous atrocity. It was a force of habit while in uniform, which he was trying to shake. She fastened one hand to her hip and wagged a digit at him. “You and I are an item now, remember?” Her lovable smile widened, and her tone transitioned to perky. “So it’s just ‘Stacie’ from now on, even in uniform, got it?” Another energetic fist bump to the chest.
The past refusing to relinquish its stranglehold on Randy’s peace of mind, he replied with a dull, curt, “Yeah, I got it.” At the moment, not even Stacie’s vibrancy could liven him up, as it did so many times.
Stacie folded her arms. Her smile deflated into a counterfeit frown. “Don’t let me have to remind you again, buster,” she threatened wryly—joking around to uplift Mr. Gloomy Face’s ho-hum mood.
Randy’s expression remained humorless. “I won’t. But hey, we’d better get back over there.” He aimed a thumb at their fellow cadets. “The Master of Ceremony should be here anytime now.” The Master of Ceremony was running late due to unforeseen circumstances but was said to be arriving within the hour. And the hour had just about expired.
Automatic sliding doors hissed open. Heads swiveled and all the lively chatter shrank to a mummer, then went deathly silent. In came a thin, tallish colonel with a weathered face and a ring of shaggy gray cropping his balding scalp—the Master of Ceremony. He was garbed in a colonel’s green Class-D Uniform, which had a long tailcoat. The decorations, ribbons, and campaign badges pinned to his chest gave testimony to his work ethic, leadership, and dedication to duty.
Randy and Stacie hurried to join their cohorts.
With gravitas, the colonel walked down the aisle, toward the rostrum—with the sternest of expressions. There was no apology for his tardiness, just a silent stringent expectation that the cadets get in order at his mere presence. And in a fit of excitement, they scrambled into two formations—one to the left of the aisle and the other to the right—as rehearsed. Then they composed themselves, straightening their uniforms.
As Warrior Extraordinaires, Randy and Stacie took their rightful place at the forefront of the class, their status signified by the patch on their left shoulder. The border of the patch was a gold upside-down triangle. “Extraordinaire” was woven in black on each line. Inside the triangle was a fist that had crisscrossing thunderbolts behind it, all gold like the border.
Upon the colonel’s approach, Randy and Stacie pivoted and faced each other to make way for him. After he passed, they spun back toward the rostrum, came side to side, and steeled their posture—shoulders squared, head straight, eyes focused on the Master of Ceremony.
The colonel walked up a set of short wooden stairs to the top of the rostrum and positioned himself behind a lectern. To his back was a lustrous red tapestry draping the entire wall. The gold embroidery at the center of the tapestry was the Commonwealth’s emblem, Eden encircled by three smaller planetoids—satellites One, Two, and Three. Satellite One comprised the colonies inhabited by the other two-fifths of humanity. Two and Three were vacant worlds used for military training exercises and mineral excavation.
The Commonwealth was but one member of an alliance of worlds, the Interplanetary Union. The seven races of the Union—Ghanrax, Dhalgratt, Varsh’Ru, Zirkran, Rumanoahan, Taramassian, and human—united to pool resources, defend and support each other. And all Union members were bound by the Union Charter, a system of rules, laws, and regulations.
Ready to initiate the Defense Force’s newest Guardians, the colonel cleared his throat and spoke into the mic. “I applaud each and every one of you for choosing to bear the burden of protecting the New Humanity,” he proudly proclaimed, loudspeakers magnifying his strong, raspy voice. The tableau of cadets stood in attentive silence, locked in the position of attention. “You survived the infernal, insufferable temperatures of Satellite Two.” The pitch of the colonel’s voice rose higher. “You valiantly trudged through the arctic wasteland of Satellite Three.”
Stacie winced and squeezed Randy’s hand. He glanced over at her from the corner of his peripheral vision. A transient flashback of her nearly perishing of hypothermia sped through her mind. She remembered Randy being by her side as she was medevacked to the infirmary that day. She remembered later suffering from a severe viral infection and Randy consistently visiting her sickbed during convalescence. A flurry of bonding moments fast-forwarded through her thoughts. Randy had provided unending consolation and encouragement as she endured the misery of BCT.
With an “ahem,” he jolted her out of the past and back to the present.
Realizing she had diverged from ceremonial etiquette, she swallowed past the lump in her throat, let go of Randy’s hand, and snapped back to the position of attention. Then she simply said to him, cerebrally, <Thank you.>
“Everything was done to test your mettle,” the colonel said. He swept the air with theatrical gesticulations of his arms as he spoke. “Everything was done to break you, but you did not break!” Excitement siphoning through his veins, the edge of his right fist fell to the lectern’s surface with a whack that reverberated throughout the auditorium and shuddered initiates. A three-second pause followed. “And now you join the mightiest military force of the Interplanetary Union.” The colonel’s fiery oration made chests swell with pride. “I welcome you to the family known as the Commonwealth Defense Force, a force that helped our allies push back the nefarious Phazharians and defeated the Bhalkrans. The enemy we now face, however, comes from within our own republic. They will tell you we are the tyrants. They will try to convince you that their actions are justified. Do not be swayed by their insidious lies, as some have.”
Randy scowled, thinking of his father. Arson’s betrayal made no sense to him. Arson’s father was deemed unworthy of Eden citizenship by the Omni-system, even though he’d devoted twenty years of life to U.S. Military service. It didn’t seem right to Arson. But by becoming a venerable war hero in the CDF, Arson had thrust into the public eye his father’s, and his family’s, years of selfless service during Earth Era. Randy wondered why Arson had chosen to tarnish the Scott family’s legacy. Why? Well, now it was up to him, Randal Scott, to carry the banner of honor.
The colonel lifted a hand. “Repeat after me.” A sea of white-gloved hands rose in unison. “I . . .”
An avalanche of emotion flooded Randy’s mind. “I, Randal Eugene Scott . . .”
Beside him, with moist eyes, “I, Stacie Lyn Spencer . . .”
The colonel continued. “. . . take this oath with no mental reservation.” Everyone repeated. “And I promise to protect the Commonwealth and its allies from all enemies, foreign and domestic.” Again, the graduates repeated. “Till my final breath or till such time my commitment expires.” Word for word was echoed, verbatim. The colonel clapped a palm against his heart and then punched outward, fist sturdy. The motion was mirrored, with precision and crispness. “Congratulations, you have now officially transitioned from cadets to full-fledged Guardians of the Commonwealth Defense Force. Welcome to the fight.” And with that, Class Alpha 9-5 became the eleventh class this cycle to graduate from BCT and MOS training—this class’ MOS being Land Combatant.
Cheers and hurrahs erupted.
As the colonel left the auditorium, everyone meandered about, shaking hands, hugging, and small-talking. One male Guardian said to another, with a laugh, “Remember when that big-ass hairy monster on Satellite Three attacked our camp? Thing was like a giant four-armed man-ape or something.”
“Yeah,” the other Guardian said, “heard it ripped apart seven Echo Company cadets. Glad we survived the big ugly fucker.”
Emotional from all the trials and tribulations she had triumphed over, Stacie sniffled, and her lashes fluttered—unshed tears of rejoice surfacing.
Randy pulled errant strands of ashy-blonde hair from her face and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’m gonna go say hello to my aunt. It’s been three months. I know she’d kill me if I left the Academy today without dropping by. So I’ll see you tonight at the banquet, okay?”
After a moment of losing herself in Randy’s caring, intelligent brown eyes and internalizing just how fortunate she was to have him in her life, she reciprocated his kindness by planting a smooch to his cheek. Still collecting herself, her voice cracked. “Later then, handsome.” She sniffled and rubbed away a tear.
Randy pivoted and made his way toward the exit.
Stacie smiled affectionately as she watched him quietly maneuver through gaggles of the celebrants—avoiding the after-ceremony gabfest as well. After his mother was murdered, he became a solemn man who built walls around himself, only allowing a select few within his personal space. And though he was exceptional at everything he strove to succeed at, from academics to sports to soldiering, he never let success go to his head, remaining humble. The kudos and accolades that came with being exceptional were a nonfactor for him. They were the byproduct of hard work and not the motivator for it. Being exceptional was simply a personal standard—a way of life.
Funny, Stacie thought, she and Randy seemed to be a total mismatch. Being such an alpha woman, she was his exact opposite. She loved basking in the limelight. She craved recognition. And usually she bedded with men who were similar to her—the showy types, which seemed to end up being jerks, especially the guy who was her last bedfellow. Randy was a change for her, and she liked him. His high standards of conduct came through in every facet of his life, including his treatment of women. Sometimes he needed to loosen up more, though, trying to be Mr. Straight Arrow all the time. But she’d help him with that, like the night during BCT when she finally cajoled him into a risky sexual escapade. They were lucky they didn’t get caught in their daring act.
He was the yin to her yang and vice versa. She was the remedy to his reclusiveness and he the remedy to her moral laxity and dissoluteness. They complimented each other’s strengths and counteracted each other’s shortcomings. And they satisfied each other’s sexual needs very well.
Stacie considered herself hitting the jackpot. Tall, trim n’ fit, and handsome-faced, Randy had looks that distinguished him—born from good genes. Even looking his worst after a day of BCT—golden-brown hair disheveled and uniform begrimed—didn’t detract from his sex appeal. And naked he was even more marvelous, her wet dream.
Halfway to the exit, a brown-skinned Guardian Randy’s age swaggered up to him and offered his hand. He was Jarius Ford, a.k.a, given to him by his peers, Mr. Larger Than Life. “Congrats, Randy,” the young black man said with exuberance.
Randy clasped Jarius’ hand and shook, firmly. “Congrats to you too.” Though Randy remained straight-faced, he was glad to see Jarius.
“I saw the placement chart. You, I, and Stacie are gonna be stationed at Colony Four with Charlie Battalion’s Lima Company.” He sounded pumped, enthusiasm through the roof. “Guess it’s no surprise. The training cadre said the majority of our class would probably end up at Four, since shit’s so outta control there.”
Randy responded with a slight nod and a terse, “Uh-huh.” He had connections within the CDF and knew many of the higher-ups, whom had great respect for his family’s generations of military and law-enforcement service. These high-ranking allies sympathized with his loss and vowed to support him, any way they could, in his pursuit to restore honor to his namesake and eliminate his father—a man who they, too, felt betrayed by, a man who had embarrassed the CDF. With such a wide sphere of influence, Randy didn’t have to leave any aspirations to happenstance or formal request. Colony Four, his father’s home colony, was where his father was operating his resistance faction. Randy pulled the necessary strings to make certain he and Stacie would be stationed there at the same company, foregoing his own personal values for the sake of vengeance.
Charlie Battalion’s Lima Company HQ was the post Arson had been assigned to command, and Randy thought there might be personnel there who could answer the questions nagging him or knew something he hadn’t.
Jarius’ eyes shifted to Stacie. She was giggling with a pair of female Guardians. His downcast gaze climbed her well-developed calves up to her backside. “A fine-looking woman,” he said with pizzazz. “Whoo-wee, you sure do know how to pick ‘em.” He whistled licentiously, ogling the blonde bombshell with lustful eyes. “I heard she’s a little on the wild n’ dangerous side, though. But I can’t understand why an heiress to an empire of wealth and fortune would join the CDF.” Baffled, he cocked a brow. “She’s a goddamn modern-day princess.”
Stacie’s family was one of the Eight, nicknamed Eight Elite. They were a clandestine conglomerate of aristocratic families whose power and influence spread wide throughout Eden, reaching even some of the most prominent government officials, and their enterprises were the first of the private sector to expand into intergalactic markets during Earth Era.
“Let’s just say she’s got her reasons,” Randy said. Not being in a social mood, he made short work of the chitchat, excusing himself. “Look, I gotta go. I’ve got something to take care of.”
Jarius slapped a friendly hand to Randy’s back. “Yeah, sure. I’ll see you tonight at the banquet. And lighten the fuck up, will ya?”
Randy went on. He enjoyed Jarius’ brotherhood and was sure he’d go far in his military career. The man had charisma, he was a people person, and many were drawn to his magnetism. And he came just a few metrics short of Warrior Extraordinaire qualification. Jarius would make a fine officer someday, Randy figured; he might’ve even been better suited for the Ambassador Corp, with his type of dynamism. Anyhow, the Land Combatant Corp, the backbone of the CDF, was lucky to have him.
Randy walked out into the corridor. To his left and right were reflective achromatic walls that had glass partitions. Behind them, students sat at desks in high-tech paperless learning environments. The Academy was where onboarding and Phase One of BCT took place, which consisted of two weeks of basic-knowledge classes such as CDF history, weapons mechanics, drill and ceremony, and CDF customs and courtesy. After completion of Phase One, cadets were shipped offworld for Phase Two, boot camp. The Academy was also where some of the more technical MOS schooling took place: Maintenance, Analysis, Intelligence, Administration.
In a classroom of fifty cadets, a female auburn-haired instructor stood beside a revolving 3-D representation of the CDF’s mechanized combatwear, emanating from a cylinder-shaped holo projector. “This is what we call a Shell,” she said to her students. Model M-X02 was a dangerous wearable armament comprised of alien smart fibers and gunmetal-gray Kryoplaste armor, and it looked every bit like some cutting-edge superhero battle suit, engineered with slick design aesthetics and a gendered anatomical structure. The M-X02 was a complete contrast from its predecessor, the clunkier unisex M-X01 exoskeleton. The cadets were viewing the M-X02’s male variant. “Shells are thought-operated mech suits that take commands via cerebral interface with your nanoimplant. They’re fully weaponized with . . .” Her voice faded from earshot as Randy went further down the corridor, soles clacking the tiled floor.
