Echoes of the past. Cavill glanced up, picturing the scene. He’d sat on the opposite side of the table, Bauer claiming the chair he now occupied. He remembered the captain’s peremptory response when he tried to reiterate his warning, insisting his intel was valid. “I’ll not hear another word about mutiny. It will never happen. Not on the Gany.”
Two days later, Bauer lay in a pool of his own blood, found dead in his quarters by his personal steward early in the morning. The news spurred Cavill into action. That same day, when mutineers attempted to storm the bridge, they were greeted by a hail of laser bolts from the waiting marines. Several insurgents paid with their lives, including Grady, who was described as a key instigator of the insurrection. Cavill recollected how he personally viewed each corpse laid out in a hangar bay—feeling mingled sensations of satisfaction and disgust—their efforts to capture the fleet’s flagship coming to naught.
He sneered, fingering his mustache. His first order as acting captain was to refuse the dead rebels the customary burial in space with military honors. Instead, he had the bodies tossed out an airlock without any ceremony, an ignominious and well-deserved end to an act of treachery.
And yet, without warning, the events of that day had returned in the form of a rebel who assumed the name, and identity, of Jack Grady. Cavill’s lips twisted in distaste. He’d never liked the man. Too relaxed in his own skin, too confident, brash even for a pilot. Too well-liked by his squadron comrades, able to impress women—and men—with ease. A skill, or natural ability, Cavill had never acquired. “Whoever you really are,” he grated, banging his fist on the table. “You’ll meet the same fate as the man whose name you’ve elected to adopt. I’ll see to that. You’ll not elude me again.”
A mellow chime interrupted his angry thoughts. He straightened, eyeing the entrance, and called, “Enter.”
The door slid open to reveal a marine sergeant, who saluted, saying, “Your guests, sir.”
“Excellent. Send them in and wait outside.”
Two hooded, masked figures in black civilian attire stepped past the soldier, who glanced at them with ill-concealed revulsion and a trace of dread as he retreated to the corridor. Cavill gestured for the newcomers to take a seat. Both did so without a word, the chairs creaking under their weight, the door closing with a muted whoosh of air.
As he observed them, Cavill reflected the pair might almost be taken for brawny, well-muscled body builders—wrestlers, perhaps—if the observer didn’t peer too closely, though he knew better. Each was of a similar stature, at least six foot five, and exuded an air of coiled menace. When the two men—he wondered how much of them remained human—removed their masks, two sets of hard, unblinking eyes bored into him.
Or, at least, what had once been eyes. Both had had their right eye removed, replaced with experimental, advanced optic nerves and receptors. Cavill knew the alterations didn’t stop there, far from it. He doubted if the additional monetary rewards would have tempted him to submit to what must have been excruciating procedures. And the enhancements went beyond the physical, each undergoing a regimen of expensive, and proprietary, drugs, along with intense mental conditioning. Being briefed on the military’s nascent, top secret cyborg program was one of several surprises he received when his temporary command of the flagship was made official, a reward for his loyalty in suppressing the mutiny.
“Gentlemen,” Cavill said, steepling his fingers in front of his face and inwardly chuckling at the bland appellation. “A pleasure to see you both again. I have a new mission for you.”
He motioned to the holo, with Grady’s face displayed above his service record. “Your target, or rather the name and particulars he has assumed. Appearance is undetermined but might be similar to this image, depending on how far he has decided to extend the charade. Last known coordinates of the gunship he and his fellow rebels commandeered will be forwarded to you before you depart, along with a vid of a recent, unsatisfactory effort to apprehend them.”
“Our usual recompense for special duty?” one of the cyborgs said, his tone rough.
“Indeed,” Cavill replied, smoothing his mustache with his fingers. “For each of you, and your, ah, associates. Plus, a hazard bonus for every member of the traitorous crew serving with the target that you also capture or dispose of.” A thought struck him. Whoever this man was, he had opted to declare himself as a rebel while adopting the persona of a disgraced officer. Where would someone like that hide after escaping his encounter with the Gany’s fighters? He cracked a small smile. “In fact, I may have a couple of leads on where your quarry and the stolen craft are now headed. Should make it easier for you to locate and terminate him and anyone else aboard.”
The two assassins glanced at each other and said in unison, their voices rasping in Cavill’s ears, “We’re listening.”
10
“Uh, am I the only one to find this hard to take in?” Grady slid his gaze to Zoe standing a few feet away. They, along with Chalmers and Mbeki, had been shown to an empty meeting room after docking at a space station in the heart of the Badlands. “Déjà vu, you mean?” he answered, brushing his hand against the back of a chair. “Yeah, I’m getting that too.”
“It’s not so surprising,” Chalmers said, eyeing the closed door, “considering that this is the exact same research station the slavers captured in our reality. And where they took your friend’s daughter, Beatrice, and the other captives from Cavalier outpost. At least in this dimension, it ended up being reused for a more positive purpose than human trafficking.”
“That isn’t what I was getting at,” Zoe said. “I mean, yeah, it’s weird and all that this is the same station we saw explode after the retreating slavers configured the reactor to go critical when we helped rescue the prisoners. But it’s now the headquarters of a rebel group holed up at the center of the Badlands. How the hell did that come about? Has the war gone so wrong for the Coalition in this reality that they’ve turned to piracy, or have we fallen in with a band of rogue insurgents?”
“I certainly hope not,” Mbeki said, his arms folded across his chest. He frowned, fingering the pistol in the drop leg holster strapped to his thigh, having wanted to bring a laser rifle instead in case of trouble. Grady nixed the idea, preferring not to do anything provocative or openly mistrustful. He hoped to convince the rebel leader known as the chief that he and his crew were not only who they claimed to be, but were all on the same side, fighting a common enemy.
So far, they had been left on their own after three taciturn troopers dressed in IC combat gear were waiting outside the airlock to escort them into the bowels of the facility. “I do not know if I have a double in this reality,” the sergeant continued. “But if I do, I very much doubt he would relish the prospect of preying on helpless civilians, no matter how much difficulty the rebellion might be experiencing.”
“Nor would the Phil Lorcan I knew,” Grady said. He stroked his chin and cast a speculative glance at the ceiling, wondering if the room was bugged. Was someone observing them, recording their every move and word right now? He turned his attention to the muscular marine. “We’ll simply have to wait and see. Assuming they don’t plan on locking us in here forever.”
“I’m guessing the news we brought caused quite a stir,” Chalmers said, dropping her hip onto a corner of the table and letting her leg swing free. “The rebels must have thought they were safe this deep in the Badlands, only to learn that Earth Galactic is in the act of assembling an invasion fleet at the edge of the sector as we speak.”
“Nowhere is safe in a war,” Grady said, his tone turning morose. “Especially when you’re on the losing side.”
Zoe smacked her fist into the palm of her other hand. “Sounds like we need to do something about that, doesn’t it?”
“Blow more stuff up, is that what you intend, Destructo?” Mbeki tossed her a knowing grin. “I, too, am eager for action. We have a powerful ship. One we could put to effective use harrying enemy forces before they strike at the rebel stronghold.”
Zoe let out a whoop, turned, and slapped palms with the sergeant. “Hooah! That’s my kind of operational objective, dude!”
Mbeki arched his eyebrow. “Don’t you mean oorah?”
“Hey, infantry grunt here,” Zoe said, her fist thunking her sternum. “Remember? It’s hooah as far as I’m concerned.”
Grady spotted Chalmers’s confused look and said, “Longstanding battle cries. Each arm of the service has its own. Even so, they vary, depending on nationality and birth origin. The IC militia, similar to Earth Galactic’s Space Navy, is a hodgepodge of people from all sorts of backgrounds and locales, including far-flung colonies and stations. Lots of different heritages and traditions, all mixed together into one happy—or, hopefully, functional—combat ready force. At least, that’s how it’s supposed to work in our reality. Can’t imagine it’s much different here.”
The professor nodded and leaned toward him. “Unique battlecries or not, seems our two fierce warriors are straining at the leash and united in their desire to inflict harm on the enemy in this dimension.”
“Not our mission,” Grady said, gesturing to encompass her and the two soldiers. “We don’t belong here. Our objective is to make repairs to the fusion drive—which this station apparently is equipped to handle—and find a way to return to our own universe. Without becoming embroiled in the conflict here. We’re needed back home. That’s where our duty lies.”
Mbeki looked away, while Zoe dropped her hands to her hips. “No disrespect meant, Boss, but isn’t this our home, too? Okay, technically, it’s not the same reality where we originated, but we have friends and loved ones here too, right? Or, at least, alternate versions of them. And it sounds like they really need our help.” She tapped the grip of the weapon riding on her thigh. “Why can’t we lend a hand for a while and then make our way back to the rendezvous point with the alien ship? That’s if it’s even still there. Who knows how long Fidelon will take to investigate his uncommunicative monitoring station?”
“I thought you were keen to return home as soon as possible,” Grady said. “What’s changed?”
“I am eager to go home—that resolve hasn’t diminished,” Zoe replied. She rubbed her freckled cheek and shook her head, her hair swishing across her shoulder, the lustrous crimson locks tied back in a ponytail. “It’s just, I keep thinking of how smug that prick Cavill sounded when he told us the rebellion here is on its last legs. I’d like nothing better than to wipe the grin off his face and shove the barrel of my laser rifle up his behind, set on kill. Then pull the trigger.”
Grady smiled in spite of himself, reminded that Zoe grew up in London, her accent becoming more pronounced when she was angry or upset. He’d never made it to England—or Ireland, his familial home—during his sole trip to Earth while in training for the Galactic Space Navy. He recalled his father once told him he had distant relatives in both countries, and he still entertained hopes of exploring those ancient lands one day to retrace his ancestral roots.
For a moment, he wondered how his family was faring in this dimension. After Grady’s mother died while he was still a kid, had his father gone on to build a thriving business, as happened in their own reality? At least his mum would have been spared the heartbreak of mourning his demise, dying before him. That still took some getting used to. He, or rather his alternate self, was dead, killed in the unsuccessful mutiny aboard the Gany. How do you wrap your mind around your own loss when you—or a version of yourself—remain alive? How insanely bizarre was that?
He gave himself a mental shake, berating himself for losing focus, and said, “I empathize, I honestly do. Believe me, I’d derive enormous satisfaction from causing Cavill some serious grief.” He hesitated, fingers brushing his forehead. If Cavill never joined the rebellion, then, in this slice of the multiverse, he wasn’t responsible for committing an act of mass murder, hadn’t slaughtered the helpless inhabitants of Meridian Nine. But he was an enemy commander all the same, preparing to inflict grievous harm on the struggling rebellion. Either way, the man was his sworn enemy.
“Boss?” Zoe said, noticing his preoccupied manner.
