Read Online The Independent Worlds (The Sixteen Galaxies Book 2) by William Drayman - Free Book Online
Authors: William Drayman
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capture the Starchild.”
“Not just capture it, my boy,” Prestern replied. “We must get it here, to me.” He turned to glance at the big tank behind him. “We must get it here to us! ”
Kestil frowned. “That will be no mean feat, though. That thing will be nearly impossible to capture. How do you hold onto something far more powerful than yourself?”
Prestern’s smile turned nasty. “It is a Sixteen Galaxies creation, Kestil. It will have the same inherent weakness the rest of them have; a pacifist philosophy.”
*****
Chicago, Illinois, 2005
Justin Blake put his hands on the thirteen-year-old boy’s shoulders. “I have to go now, Timmy.”
Timothy Blake’s eyes glowed in admiration of his older brother. “I’m gonna be just like you Justin! I’m gonna be a paratrooper!” The boy wriggled out of Justin’s grip and raced inside the house. He came back out ten years older and in the uniform of a British regular. “I have to go, Justin. I’m off to Afghanistan!” He waved and headed for a truck.
Justin felt cold all over. He had an overwhelming feeling of dread. He had to stop Timothy before he got into that truck. He couldn’t cry out; his mouth wouldn’t work. The truck drove off, and he tried to run after it. It was so hard to move; his body felt heavy and sluggish. The truck was ripped apart in a fireball just seconds later. He ran towards the blazing wreck, but it was like he ran in deep mud. Tim walked out of the flames, his uniform shredded and blackened, his helmet gone, along with his hair. Justin saw his brother’s face, burned and bleeding. Tim’s mouth moved, but Justin couldn’t quite hear the words. As he pounded toward the truck, the wreck no closer though he ran with all his strength, Tim fell down, and was swallowed by a black plastic bag.
Then his words finally reached Justin’s ears; “Why didn’t you tell me it was like this, Justin? Why? Why?! ”
“TIM!”
Justin sat up with the taste of salt in his mouth. The salt was from the tears that ran freely down his cheeks. His throat was tight, and he was covered in sweat. He ran a hand through his damp hair and checked his phone by the bed; 2:37am. He got up and washed his face, and then made a coffee. He sat down with a sigh. The dream never changed at all. It hadn’t changed since Tim died. Timothy Blake had joined the British army, to follow in his older brother’s footsteps. But, he failed to make the cut to join the Paratroop Regiment. He remained a regular and was shipped to Helmand Province in Afghanistan. He’d only been there three weeks when the Land Rover he was in drove over a Taliban remotely-detonated IED.
Justin’s mother, alone and still mourning her husband, who died of a brain tumor in 1997, couldn’t take the added sorrow. She never answered the door when Justin arrived home on compassionate leave. He kicked it in and found her on the kitchen floor, with her head in the oven. He’d turned the gas off, choking on the fumes, and staggered back outside to dial 999. He sat on the footpath and cried like a baby until the ambulance, fire brigade and police arrived.
He sipped the hot coffee and ignored the tear that trickled down his cheek. The war on terror had become his war; deep and personal. When Hilary recruited Justin, she told him the department fought terror cells that threatened the UK. That, and those British citizens who financed and fed them information and other support. Their department was black; it didn’t exist. There were no arrests, no lawyers. Every target died, quickly and quietly.
Most of his targets were young men with guns and home-made explosives, but some were average British subjects; ordinary people. But, he knew they were actually part of organized terror groups. Some stole restricted information, some financed attacks, and some smuggled weapons and explosives into the country. As long as those people gave information and support to the extremists, Justin would kill
“Not just capture it, my boy,” Prestern replied. “We must get it here, to me.” He turned to glance at the big tank behind him. “We must get it here to us! ”
Kestil frowned. “That will be no mean feat, though. That thing will be nearly impossible to capture. How do you hold onto something far more powerful than yourself?”
Prestern’s smile turned nasty. “It is a Sixteen Galaxies creation, Kestil. It will have the same inherent weakness the rest of them have; a pacifist philosophy.”
*****
Chicago, Illinois, 2005
Justin Blake put his hands on the thirteen-year-old boy’s shoulders. “I have to go now, Timmy.”
Timothy Blake’s eyes glowed in admiration of his older brother. “I’m gonna be just like you Justin! I’m gonna be a paratrooper!” The boy wriggled out of Justin’s grip and raced inside the house. He came back out ten years older and in the uniform of a British regular. “I have to go, Justin. I’m off to Afghanistan!” He waved and headed for a truck.
Justin felt cold all over. He had an overwhelming feeling of dread. He had to stop Timothy before he got into that truck. He couldn’t cry out; his mouth wouldn’t work. The truck drove off, and he tried to run after it. It was so hard to move; his body felt heavy and sluggish. The truck was ripped apart in a fireball just seconds later. He ran towards the blazing wreck, but it was like he ran in deep mud. Tim walked out of the flames, his uniform shredded and blackened, his helmet gone, along with his hair. Justin saw his brother’s face, burned and bleeding. Tim’s mouth moved, but Justin couldn’t quite hear the words. As he pounded toward the truck, the wreck no closer though he ran with all his strength, Tim fell down, and was swallowed by a black plastic bag.
Then his words finally reached Justin’s ears; “Why didn’t you tell me it was like this, Justin? Why? Why?! ”
“TIM!”
Justin sat up with the taste of salt in his mouth. The salt was from the tears that ran freely down his cheeks. His throat was tight, and he was covered in sweat. He ran a hand through his damp hair and checked his phone by the bed; 2:37am. He got up and washed his face, and then made a coffee. He sat down with a sigh. The dream never changed at all. It hadn’t changed since Tim died. Timothy Blake had joined the British army, to follow in his older brother’s footsteps. But, he failed to make the cut to join the Paratroop Regiment. He remained a regular and was shipped to Helmand Province in Afghanistan. He’d only been there three weeks when the Land Rover he was in drove over a Taliban remotely-detonated IED.
Justin’s mother, alone and still mourning her husband, who died of a brain tumor in 1997, couldn’t take the added sorrow. She never answered the door when Justin arrived home on compassionate leave. He kicked it in and found her on the kitchen floor, with her head in the oven. He’d turned the gas off, choking on the fumes, and staggered back outside to dial 999. He sat on the footpath and cried like a baby until the ambulance, fire brigade and police arrived.
He sipped the hot coffee and ignored the tear that trickled down his cheek. The war on terror had become his war; deep and personal. When Hilary recruited Justin, she told him the department fought terror cells that threatened the UK. That, and those British citizens who financed and fed them information and other support. Their department was black; it didn’t exist. There were no arrests, no lawyers. Every target died, quickly and quietly.
Most of his targets were young men with guns and home-made explosives, but some were average British subjects; ordinary people. But, he knew they were actually part of organized terror groups. Some stole restricted information, some financed attacks, and some smuggled weapons and explosives into the country. As long as those people gave information and support to the extremists, Justin would kill
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