Read Online Her Brother's Keeper - eARC by Mike Kupari - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mike Kupari
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lightening horizon in front of him. Lone Star would appear over the western mountains in an hour or so. In the meantime, the twin crescent moons hanging in the sky provided plenty of illumination for him as he jogged down the lonely highway at a steady pace. He was five kilometers from the ranch and wasn’t even breathing hard; the physiological treatments and enhancements he’d received in the military helped him stay fit with minimal effort, even after all these years. Marcus wasn’t out running because he needed to. Running just helped him clear his head. He focused on the horizon and tried to shake the memories that haunted him.
Five klicks out was a good turnaround point. Jogging through a U-turn on the faded ceramicrete highway, Marcus found himself reflecting on his military career. He missed the Espatier Corps sometimes, despite the inanity the Green Machine was capable of. The Special Operations Groups were different anyway. His friends and comrades from the 22nd SOG were some of the finest people that Marcus had ever known.
A lot of them were dead. The Concordiat Defense Force hadn’t had to fight much in the way of large, conventional wars in the last century, not since the defeat of the Maggots and the end of the Second Interstellar War. There had been fleet actions here and skirmishes there, but nothing like the conflagration that had left millions and millions dead. There were wars, though—bloody, often protracted conflicts, insurgencies, and uprisings. Dirty little wars that didn’t let the Concordiat bring the full weight of its space forces to bear, wars that were fought by the man on the ground. Much like the ancient, barbaric conflicts of pre-Space Age Earth, these wars were largely fought by soldiers with muddy boots, grim faces, and weapons in their hands.
Marcus often quietly wondered if it was worth it. A lot of brave young Concordiat citizens died in those campaigns, and some of them didn’t accomplish much in the end. It was policy, though, handed down from the distant, aloof political leadership back on Earth. One of the articles of the Interstellar Concord was that the Concordiat would be there to defend not only its members, but to whatever extent possible, the entirety of the human race from oppression, tyranny, and war. Wherever human hearts yearned for freedom, the philosophers waxed, the Concordiat would answer their call.
It sounded good in theory. In reality, it meant getting involved in—often choosing sides in—ugly conflicts across inhabited space. Sometimes a new group of settlers would land on a colony world and conflict would arise with those that were already there. Sometimes two colonies on the same world would go to war with each other. Other times, like on Mildenhall, a fanatical group of infected, mutated militants would commit whatever atrocity, engage in whatever violence they deemed necessary to achieve their goals. In most cases, political leadership didn’t let the Fleet simply blast the hostiles from orbit. They wanted to limit collateral damage, or minimize civilian casualties, or even win hearts and minds (Marcus winced at the recollection of how many times he’d heard that irritating platitude). Without fail, these stipulations meant boots on the ground. They meant that the Espatier Corps was going in, either en masse or as special operations units. These conflicts were always unique, but they all shared one thing in common: they afforded the least capable of enemies the opportunity to kill Concordiat personnel.
After Mildenhall, Marcus knew he was done with the military. He’d missed Annie’s first steps while on one deployment, and had very nearly died while on another. Enough was enough. After that, he had decided to focus on his family. He left the Espatiers and used his discharge bonus to get his family a homestead on New Austin. Aside from the occasional violent criminal that needed shooting, his life had been very peaceful since settling on the
Five klicks out was a good turnaround point. Jogging through a U-turn on the faded ceramicrete highway, Marcus found himself reflecting on his military career. He missed the Espatier Corps sometimes, despite the inanity the Green Machine was capable of. The Special Operations Groups were different anyway. His friends and comrades from the 22nd SOG were some of the finest people that Marcus had ever known.
A lot of them were dead. The Concordiat Defense Force hadn’t had to fight much in the way of large, conventional wars in the last century, not since the defeat of the Maggots and the end of the Second Interstellar War. There had been fleet actions here and skirmishes there, but nothing like the conflagration that had left millions and millions dead. There were wars, though—bloody, often protracted conflicts, insurgencies, and uprisings. Dirty little wars that didn’t let the Concordiat bring the full weight of its space forces to bear, wars that were fought by the man on the ground. Much like the ancient, barbaric conflicts of pre-Space Age Earth, these wars were largely fought by soldiers with muddy boots, grim faces, and weapons in their hands.
Marcus often quietly wondered if it was worth it. A lot of brave young Concordiat citizens died in those campaigns, and some of them didn’t accomplish much in the end. It was policy, though, handed down from the distant, aloof political leadership back on Earth. One of the articles of the Interstellar Concord was that the Concordiat would be there to defend not only its members, but to whatever extent possible, the entirety of the human race from oppression, tyranny, and war. Wherever human hearts yearned for freedom, the philosophers waxed, the Concordiat would answer their call.
It sounded good in theory. In reality, it meant getting involved in—often choosing sides in—ugly conflicts across inhabited space. Sometimes a new group of settlers would land on a colony world and conflict would arise with those that were already there. Sometimes two colonies on the same world would go to war with each other. Other times, like on Mildenhall, a fanatical group of infected, mutated militants would commit whatever atrocity, engage in whatever violence they deemed necessary to achieve their goals. In most cases, political leadership didn’t let the Fleet simply blast the hostiles from orbit. They wanted to limit collateral damage, or minimize civilian casualties, or even win hearts and minds (Marcus winced at the recollection of how many times he’d heard that irritating platitude). Without fail, these stipulations meant boots on the ground. They meant that the Espatier Corps was going in, either en masse or as special operations units. These conflicts were always unique, but they all shared one thing in common: they afforded the least capable of enemies the opportunity to kill Concordiat personnel.
After Mildenhall, Marcus knew he was done with the military. He’d missed Annie’s first steps while on one deployment, and had very nearly died while on another. Enough was enough. After that, he had decided to focus on his family. He left the Espatiers and used his discharge bonus to get his family a homestead on New Austin. Aside from the occasional violent criminal that needed shooting, his life had been very peaceful since settling on the
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