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  Cavalry

  Volume Four of the Galactic Citadel Series

  THORBY RUDBEK

  Copyright © 2015 Thorby Rudbek

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9780987767448

  DEDICATION

  A certain friend has been waiting so long for this book to be published. His work on the Facebook page and websites for my stories has been invaluable, so it’s worth the chuckle he’ll get to see his name in here! In addition to Kent Clawson, I’d like to dedicate this story to all the people that want to be able to take a break from the humdrum by reading an entertaining story, without having to tiptoe through explicit scenes or skim over coarse language… guess what? No tiptoeing or skimming needed here! And finally, thanks to the One who oversees all creation – even the creation of bright, exciting and romantic Sci-Fi!

  Prologue

  The sounds seemed to trickle, drip by drip, into his consciousness, as if the privilege to think were dependent on this metaphorical supply of water, one that must be provided slowly, judiciously. Thinking about listening convinced him of one thing – he was alive! The fact that he was alive seemed mysteriously impossible, as if death had already singled him out, though his mind could not recall this supposedly life-ending experience, his own identity, his location, or any detail of his prior existence. His one contact with life was the faint, rhythmic sound.

  There was nothing else, only darkness.

  The concept of movement came back to him, as if it were a new discovery, but the means to effect such action was beyond his stunted comprehension.

  Gradually, his thoughts cleared a little. The concept of his own individuality jelled within the fragmentary mental processes. Still later, this led to the idea that someone with a mind must exist in a specific location. Without sensory responses, however, that concept of location seemed difficult to define. He recalled spaces large, and spaces small; places familiar to him. Much of this scenery was smoke-shrouded, adding to the mystery. There were things that moved in these recollections… things that walked on two legs… like him! His concept of self was now blossoming, yet he could not tell if he were in a blacked out room, or if his eyes had failed him. The only thing to latch onto was the audible input. The sounds were meaningless at first, but after a period during which he may have faded away into near oblivion again for a while, he came back more focused than before, and realised he was wrapped in something… something which was emitting the faint sounds, and that the sounds were repeated, rhythmically.

  Fludrad realised that it was he that was generating the sounds – it was the process of his own breathing! Things came quicker now: he recalled his heritage; the fact that he was a Narlav; and the indefatigable warrior nature of his kind. Next came the startling recollection that he and many other Narlavs had been battling with an unknown enemy above twin planets, and had been defeated.

  Inconceivable! Echoes of Narlav invincibility bounced around, diminishing at each reflection until they were swallowed up by the semi-silence.

  The fur-covered beast from the needle-shaped silvery spaceship! The heat… the burning! The last memory came back first. He recalled how to direct his limbs, tried to move, but found he could move neither arm nor leg.

  He realised that some kind of wrapping was holding him immobile, and it even covered his face. Perhaps I am not blind! He fervently hoped this was the case. It surprised him to feel this way, as the recollection of the magnitude of his injuries during those final moments before the furry enemy had retreated into the cool of his needle-shaped ship now surfaced in his mind. A Narlav warrior should not wish to live as an invalid. (The word he used was Korpatnal, and the closest English word would be vegetable; from a Narlav warrior perspective; the prospect of living, or existing, partly incapacitated was as bad as being in a vegetative state.) Perhaps I can recover my strength. Someone must be trying to bring me back… did some other Narlavs survive the crash, and find me? He realised as soon as he thought this that it would be ludicrous, as no Narlav would try to save such a cripple as he must surely be.

  Something icy-cold seemed to flow over, even – impossibly – through his body, and his thoughts started to drift again, until all consciousness was lost.

  The capture of this strange, repulsively furless command-crew member, a key participant in the unprovoked attack on their worlds, was, for the Quetibb (meaning ‘The Heirs’), the natives who had rushed to the crash site, like a gift from Quelood, or, literally, ‘The Parents’ – the twin planets that together were their collective home. Daklan, the leader of the invading Narlavs, had optimistically and prematurely re-named the worlds Eflinak and Jarkader, after the legendary warriors who had inspired the Narlav Blood Brother Ritual. This bit of species-specific self-adoration would of course have been of no concern to the Quetibb, even if they had heard of it. In their tongue, each planet was termed Quelood, an apparent duplication which might be seen as a reflection of the twin nature of the planets, but just as each planet was subtly different from the other, each planet’s name was emphasized differently: one was referred to as Quelood (emphasis on the first syllable, with the inference being that it was female, i.e. the mother) and the other as Quelood (emphasis on the second syllable, with the implication that it was male, i.e. the father). Although the Narlav invasion force had landed on Quelood, the Warrnam had truly been subjected to ‘the mother of all reprisals’ for their ill-prepared invasion.

  Quetod, sleek and slim, stood back, watching as the new, untested medical apparatus took the blocky, burned and bloody alien into a state of energy deprivation once more. She looked over at her companion and life-mate, Quedon, seeing his singed white fur was already starting to grow back, though the growth was uneven, patchy, just beginning to cover the still-reddened skin beneath. The contrast with her silky pale brown fur was dramatic; she had not been injured in the attack on the Warrnam, as it had been brought down before her attack / collision was scheduled (she was to be in the ninth wave, he had been in the second), whereas he had nearly been roasted after his Quequan[1] had penetrated the command area of the Warrnam, while it was still under the thermal barrage being focused by the defenders’ mirror system.

  “It seems incredible that there were no others available for us to use your experimental equipment on.” This remark was directed to the crouching Quetibb before her in a half-stated, half-interrogative manner. She had previously been briefed on the casualties that had occurred during the battle to secure the wreck. “I’m not sure it is effective. This one seems so close to death, even after a few quabaque[2].”

  Quimod, the inventor of the apparatus, adjusted the monitors carefully from his semi-recumbent position. After several parameter changes, he nodded as he absently stroked himself down the back of his head, an unconscious gesture of self-congratulation. “The creature is stable now,” he stated with satisfaction, his deep brown fur shimmering in the light from the device he was hovering over.

  “Your efforts may yet bring us more knowledge,” Quedon commented to the imaginative medical technology expert. “We shall see, within a few more quabaque, I hope.”

  “Yes, these creatures are very tough.” Quimod turned from the equipment with a hint of sheathing and extending of his claws, an indication of inevitable uncertainty regarding such a unique test-case. “The equipment is primitive, but has some potential.” This came across with a degree of humility, though the self-satisfaction of the ‘acid test’ was also evident in his tone. “Power consumption is quite high, however.”

  “As long as the enemy still lives, we must continue to run it,” Quedon responded. “We must be ready to defend ourselves, if others of this ugly race come here, so the power required will continue to be diverted to you.”

  “The pathfinder group searched the vessel si
x times, after the last of their attacks – is that not so?” Quetod recalled.

  “Let me see. Two were lost on the third venture, though the alien that caused their death was almost dead himself, before he jumped them. The other invaders were either crushed in the crash, fried as they were thrown out onto the simmering surface, or died trying to kill our initial freedom fighters sent to reconnoitre and – I am forever grateful – to rescue me and my crew! The fact that their massive ship was so crumpled meant there was little space in its passageways for combat, and our shorter and more flexible fighters used this to their advantage.” Quedon reviewed the report on the device attached to the wall beside him, brushing his whiskers back as he spoke. “They would have been formidable warriors, had we met them in the fields.”

  Quetod snickered. “Our ancestors might have been happy to have met them there in ages past, but we know how many lives have been saved by the solar intensifiers in our recent land reclamation battles … such costly bravery is no longer the best choice.” She voiced an opinion increasingly common among the mothers on each world, that their young should not be thrown like fodder into any challenges which arose, but that alternative means should be used, means that did not involve the wholesale slaughter of their children. She ran her forepaws down her chest, smoothing the fur as it rose and fell over the six small bulges that indicated her feminine form was still young and fertile. Briefly she wondered if she and Quedon would be blessed with another litter. She had lost so many of her quil[3] in the last campaign against quyz[4], their eternal enemy – an enemy that had, until fairly recently, occupied much of what was now Quetibb territory. The result of these campaigns had been a great increase in arable land, and a great reduction in loss of life – at least until the battle against this new enemy.

  Previously, our only foe was quyz … Her mood became sombre. In prior generations, many Quetibb had fought for seemingly endless quotent[5] with slicing weapons and often, in desperation, tooth and claw, to clear each succeeding section of carnivorous plant, so that more crops could be grown. The latest tactic had employed the power of their sun, rather than relying on fur-power alone. The plant was only partially eliminated in this most recent raid (using the solar concentrators that could power or kill, depending on the level selected) and some concealed plants had caught the attacking force off guard. Quetod tried not to think about their agony, as the plants would have quickly liquefied their bodies to strip the nutrients.

  Even more devastating for such a devoted mother, her last remaining daughter had died in the first wave of the attack on the monstrous ship. Queton will always be remembered, she vowed. But to lose such a daughter was hard, though her fearless flight and the subsequent destruction of the energy field around the attacking vessel was key to the Quetibb victory over the invaders. Such losses were an inevitable consequence of their determination to live free, or die trying. To run – such creatures! Her distaste was evident regarding those Narlavs; she extended her forepaws, pads up, claws unsheathed, at the thought that they had tried to escape after casually destroying their crops and digging – (unsuccessfully) into Quetibb secret places in an attempt to capture her people. Such a tactic! Quetod’s feeling of contempt for the invaders grew greater as she reviewed their doomed tactics. Hah! As hopeless as those who uprooted quyz and walked away, expecting them to never grow back!

  Quedon recognised the gesture and her subsequent sadness. He came to her, caressing the silky fur around her face and pulling her against him, though he did not comment on the devastation that had occurred in their family, as he knew most other Quetibb had suffered similar losses. “We will work for three more quidolque[6], salvaging what we can from this behemoth, and then we will go to the swimming place.” He moved closer. “And there I will show you that our family will go on.” His body temperature rose as he said this, and she felt the heat, and knew that what he said was true.

  She growled softly into his ear as she stroked the fur down his sides with a hint of passion: “Perhaps our next quil will be born as we travel to the stars on the ship we build, using the invaders’ own technology!”

  Chapter One

  These guys aren’t the enemy… they are the cavalry! – Ed Baynes

  “Alright!” Richard Fletcher shouted as the laughter died down. “Let’s get everyone out of this weather!”

  The first battle for New Leeds was over – although perhaps ‘cancelled’ was a more accurate term.

  His directive was an eminently sensible one – and this general announcement was soon shared with the forces out of range of his voice, including those spread around the hangar exterior and the ones inside. All those released from Kirrina’s ‘hold’, aware, due to her mental ‘touch’ that the conflict was over but not understanding what had caused it to cease so suddenly and so completely, started to gather together, their weapons lowered, their stupefied glances falling on the emerging GAF personnel as they shimmered, seemingly into existence, from the secret chamber below.

  Richard decided he was feeling numb, initially he thought it was due to the emotional rollercoaster he had been riding – though the impact of Beckie Hawk’s fervent broadcast was starting to fade – but increasingly he realised it was the purely physical effect of the bitingly cold wind and the horizontal snow carried by it. Fortunately, this meteorological aspect was still in a comparative lull, meaning that visibility was poor, but adequate – his thin tee-shirt, however, was not. He looked at Ed Baynes, taking in the shell-shocked expression which had not quite left his face in the brief interlude inspired by Beckie’s passionate transmissions. “But first, you can help seal up the holes you put in this building.”

  “Understood.” Baynes’ voice sounded flat; he was still off-balance, but he saw the need for this action. “Captain Alder!”

  A nearby Marine approached and saluted (Major) Baynes smartly. Richard realised immediately that this man was the actual leader of the flying forces; his confident stance and the fact that he had already re-holstered hand weapon showed that he had recognised the rapid change – no, cancellation - of the battle plan.

  Richard’s mind skimmed over the events of the previous few minutes: The helicopter-borne attacking forces, nominally led by Ed Baynes of the National Unusual Incident Team (NUIT), initially seemed to have had the upper hand, and on their lightning approach had blasted several garage-door sized holes in the hangar walls to affect an entrance to the facility. A piece of the shrapnel from the rockets had inadvertently sliced through Doctor Tracy Hawk’s neck, severing her jugular and causing her abrupt death. This critical casualty had brought out the desolation and then the fury of her adopted daughter, Beckie, whose ability to transmit thoughts and especially emotions was almost on a par to Kirrina’s.

  Moments after Tracy’s demise, the ’copters had landed, deploying a squad or two of Marines who had advanced on the structure, beginning a confident encircling and invasion, intending to trap the personnel both inside and out. The emergence of the Arshonnan ship known originally as Patrol Craft One had begun the rout of this advance. This massive black spacecraft – a two hundred and sixty foot combination of a fabled Mark II Polyebonium, elongated egg-shaped casting, with the original Citadel incorporated as an apparent extra-terrestrial equivalent of an oversized hood ornament, and a similar spherical addition at the rear, containing a second Eliminator and Drive – had smashed up through the hangar roof and hovered low over the troops. Kirrina, piloting within, had used her stupendous mental powers to quite literally stop them all in their tracks before handing over control of the vessel to Paranak. This abrupt end to the conventional attack was briefly conceived of as a great victory for the forces aligned with the secret construction of the Galactic Assistance Fleet, but the feeling of success was short-lived, once the astounding truth was revealed: the arctic conditions prevalent across much of the planet were not due to the violent vagaries of nature, as they had erroneously and confidently concluded, but instead indicated a force of Narlavs unexpected by
Richard, Karen or Paranak, from another Narlav planet, had previously arrived ‘here’ and had just begun a ‘cold war’ attack of world-wide proportions… and horrifying effectiveness.

  This revelation was devastating to the Fletchers, leaving them feeling stripped of the hope and the confidence that their conviction of Earth’s hidden status had imparted to them since their return from Fepnine. Much like Brad Hawk, with his wife suddenly dead before him, they had found a gaping hole in the centre of their cosy world view. Fortunately for Tracy – and for the ‘frozen’ Marines, too – Brad had been able, once reminded of this option, to take her lifeless body to the magnificent ‘Medic’ inside Citadel. This Medic was an ancient Arshonnan invention of exquisite impact, not a person, and it even had the power to reverse death… sometimes. In this case, the injury being extreme but very recent, the remedy was simple (where broken arteries could be reconstructed as if they had never been damaged and blood could be synthesised so exactly as to be indistinguishable from the original fluid) and so she had been almost instantly ‘Restored’ to full health. As soon as she had returned to the scene of the attack she had convinced Beckie – the second most powerful ‘Talent’ known on Earth – that she was alive… again. In response to this miraculous renewal, Beckie’s mood had swung from the deepest despair to the most intense joy and her uncontrolled transmission of this emotion had totally overpowered the mental state of all the humans within a couple of hundred feet, causing an uninhibited display of rejoicing, until Kirrina had ‘toned things down’ with a broadcast of her own.

  Richard’s wife used her powers judiciously, being nearly twice the age of the eleven year old Beckie and having had far more than twice her experience and training at matters of ‘Empowerment’, but this measured response had been effective enough to demolish the completely pharmaceutical-free ‘high’.