Mako (The Mako Saga: Book 1) (65 page)

Oh, what a day that had been.

Clasping a sweaty palm over his face, Masterson stifled another sob long enough to reach for his computer console and punch up a command… the one that accessed the Myrick 4 security logs, and the one he’d take to his grave.

Maybe it would be different this time, he thought. Maybe somehow, some way, the events from time-index 78.2 to 91.6 would change, and that incredible young man—with all that promise, and all those glorious years ahead of him—would walk out alive. But it wasn’t to be.

Then, with a final pang of soul-twisting regret, Masterson touched a quivering finger to the “play” key, and watched—fraught with an anguish that no parent should ever know—as the lone gunman in muddy green tigerstripes stormed the room, drew down with his sidearm, and in the blink of an eye… put a bullet through the skull of Masterson’s long-lost son.

“Commandant, sir, the repairs are—”

She never even heard the shot.

****

As the blood crawled in thick, runny gobs down the wall of the commandant’s ready room, Masterson shoved the pistol back into its holster and returned to his seat—the lifeless corpse of the uninvited female officer twisted in a pretzel-like sprawl on the floor, surrounded in the blood-stained reports which the commandant himself had requested just an hour ago. Hunching over the body and riffling through the mess of documents, he located the one marked “Classified” in large, red font, wiped it on the dead girl’s pant leg, and flipped it open.

“Not this time,” he bit out, glaring at the standard requisitions form inside, though not just any SRF. This was the one he’d submitted to Zier for extra forces at Dulaston—a request the chancellor, in all of his infinite wisdom, had seen fit to deny. “Not at my feet.”

Then, activating his communications terminal and accessing a secure audio channel, Masterson waited.

“Eurial Sun?” a man answered through the busy sounds of keyboards, ringing phones, and a lively newsroom.

“Get me Maxwell Larson.”

“Hold please while I transfer you.”

A series of repetitive beeps later, another man picked up. “Larson.”

“Mr. Larson,” Masterson said in an icy voice. “Do you know who this is?”

A dark silence filled the line.

“Yes, Commandant,” Larson gulped through a whisper. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“The time has come for you to repay that favor to me. Are you listening?”

Once the conversation had concluded, Masterson sealed the requisitions file in an envelope, signed it with his usual alias—D. Reese—and slipped it into the outgoing mail basket. Then, retrieving a bottle of Alystierian whiskey from his desk drawer, he filled the dirty glass beside it and stared ominously back at the man in the frozen image.

Tall and well-built, he was a younger man—early 30s, perhaps—with sun-coppered skin, light brown hair, and an odd marking on his upper right arm… a tattoo, featuring an old-style ship’s anchor, a shark, and a pair of strange words that Masterson had squinted dozens of times already to interpret, but couldn’t: “Semper Proficias”… whatever that meant.

Slowly, the intricate wheels of Alec Masterson’s mind began to turn.

At the moment, he didn’t know who this soldier with the tattoo was, but that was about to change. The time for patience was at an end. No longer would he stand idly by and watch as his feeble chancellor gave away this war with fool-hearted diplomacy. He knew that was over, and soon enough, the Alystierian people would know it too. When that time came, they would demand new leadership, and just as he’d done so fervently after Phalkirk, he would be there to answer the call.

Still, those gears would take time to set in motion, which meant that for now, Masterson was free to focus his undivided attention on the mystery surrounding this tattooed gunman—a man who, once found, would beg for a death so merciful as the one he’d shown the commandant’s son.

<<<<>>>>

Acknowledgements

To my brothers (Dave, Dre, Jeff, and Chris… the real Renegades): You are my friends, my family, my support, and my inspiration… It is an absolute
honor
to know each of you.

To my beta readers (Ziggy, Rebekah, Jesse, and Lindsay): Your hard work and priceless insight helped to turn a blind man’s messy vision for a story into legible prose that everyone—sighted or not—will hopefully enjoy.

To the God who built a universe far grander than the one in these pages: Thank you for bestowing upon me a passion for storytelling, and for your son’s ultimate act of grace toward even people as stubborn as I. (Joshua 1:9)

To my awesome readers:
RUAH!!!... And GO NOLES!!!

About the Author

Throughout his career, Ian J. Malone has written for a variety of mediums ranging from short stories to sports features, though he is best known for his work in science fiction as author of the critically acclaimed
Mako Saga
. Having studied communications and sport administration at Florida State University, Malone credits his tenures in radio, law enforcement, sports marketing, and the military for much of his thematic inspiration, in addition to his friends and a lifelong love of the speculative fiction genre.

A native of Florida, Malone resides in Raleigh, North Carolina with his wife, son, and the family’s Boston Terrier (the “legendary” Denny Crane).

For more about the author, visit him online at
www.ianjmalone.com
or follow him on Facebook and Twitter (
@ianjmalone
).

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Mako