Mako (The Mako Saga: Book 1) (64 page)

Many minutes later, when their lips finally parted, the duo stared with wonder into the strange new horizon surrounding them—a horizon that now seemed filled with limitless possibilities—and they laughed about the crazy road that had led them to it. So much had happened in the decade since that fateful night in Tallahassee; a night when Lee and Danny—bored out of their minds, and dying for a decent place to grab a beer—had happened upon that quaint little dive bar just off-campus at Florida State. So many great memories (some not so great, too), and yet as powerfully trying as some of those nights had been—full of depression, disappointment, and debilitating self-doubt—none of that mattered now; not the failed careers, or the broken dreams, or the crumbled relationships… certainly not the decision to come here, kidnappings and firefights notwithstanding. Not even the wasted years that might’ve been for the two of them mattered, because in the end, all of it had served to forge them into who they were today… two people—a little older, a little wiser, and now insanely in love—sharing in the single purest moment of blissful happiness that either of them had ever known. For that, they wouldn’t have changed a thing, even if they could have.

Whatever life held in store for them going forward, Lee and Mac knew now with absolute certainty that as long as they had that… as long as they had each other—be it in this world or any other—everything else would be just fine… with a little help from their friends, of course.

Epilogue

“
Damn him!
” Alec Masterson screamed in an almost feral roar as he stormed through the door of his office onboard the Kamuir. Behind him, the frightened bridge officers did their best to remain focused on the ship’s continuing repairs, having never seen their commander so volatile. “
Damn that
senile old fool!
He hamstrings me out of the tools I need, and then has the audacity to sit back on his precious throne and lay this disgrace at
my feet
? Not today, you arrogant bastard,” he fumed, sweeping an angry fist across the desk beside him, sending its contents to the floor in a discombobulated mess of file folders and feathery paper. “
Not this time!
”

Collapsing into the worn cushions of his leather chair, a frustrated Masterson ran his fingers through his silvery black hair as he traced the scene around the room, its walls lined with plaques and awards accumulated throughout his illustrious career. Not so long ago, he could recall having held an immense amount of pride in every one of them because, in his mind, each accomplishment represented a single step closer to his ultimate goal—the unchallenged mantle of the chancellorship itself, and the absolute power that came with it.

Even now, every fiber of his being knew that was his destiny—his purpose—and he’d known this to be true for as long as he could remember. Dating all the way back to the beginning, when his parents had so cruelly abandoned him to the fates—among the sewers and gutter trash of the Alystierian capital city of Eurial—even then he’d known. Some men might’ve been bitter at having been handed such an atrocious lot, but not Masterson; he’d been grateful for it. It had made him strong and resourceful—taught him to survive by whatever brutal means he had to, and at age 17, when he finally took that hallowed oaths to join the Imperial Guard, he could feel that destiny falling into place around him.

Success came easily to Masterson after that, in large part because his commanding officers quickly realized his propensity for getting results, though most had little desire to know how he’d achieved them. His confirmed kill numbers spoke for themselves, and while many lacked the taste for his brutal flair, they found it a highly useful asset. Killing had come easy for him in the battlefield—probably because he’d killed for so much less prior to stepping foot on it.

By age 19 he was already a sergeant, a lieutenant by 21, a lieutenant commander by 26. Then at age 31, he became the youngest soldier in Alystierian history to earn the rank of colonel, and assume command of his own ship, the Destroyer Myralord.

Masterson’s fiery reputation as a rising star had become well known by that time, and his accolades only increased, though his popularity remained primarily limited to the military men and women who knew him.

That all changed, however, when four years later, an agrarian race of aliens happened upon Phalkirk—a largely uninhabited world just inside the Rellian border—having no idea of its status as an Alystierian world… they would pay a heavy price for that ignorance.

Fueled by the propaganda machine of the press, who paralleled the unwanted incursion to the Beyonder invasion that had nearly wiped out their ancestors on Aura so many years earlier, the public went wild with cries for swift action—cries that Masterson was only too happy to oblige. In a single, blood-soaked night, Colonel Alec Masterson went from being a champion of the fleet to the messiah of the Alystierian people.

In addition to rampant professional and public acclaim, the triumphant victory had also earned him the eye of the chancellor’s daughter herself, and a year later, the two were married before a rejoicing crowd of thousands. In retrospect, some might’ve seen this as the peak of his success, but at the time, in his mind, it was only another step toward a far more rewarding end. In truth, he’d hated Kara. He’d found her pretentious and arrogant—a brash, nagging shrew whose obnoxious sense of royal self-entitlement was a testament to her coddled upbringing, and he detested her for that.

Alas, their union had made him the clear frontrunner for commandant someday, and thus, it was a necessary evil that he would have to tolerate—for a while, anyway.

Kara’s eye wasn’t the only one he’d drawn at that time of his life. Since Phalkirk, many women had been all too eager to share his bed—some he’d denied and some he hadn’t—though that all ended when, three years into his marriage, a fiery young ensign with starlit blonde hair, stunning golden eyes, and a sparkling reputation as a first class ball-breaker gained assignment to the Myralord. Her name was Staff Sgt. Delarla Reese, and never in his 38 years had he ever seen anything so breathtakingly beautiful.

Passionate, ambitious, dedicated, and driven for success with a ferocity matched only by his own, Masterson loved her from the first moment he laid eyes on her.

The affair remained a closely guarded secret for the next year and a half, known only to Captain Tavarous—his dear friend and second in command—plus a handful of guards who could be trusted to not ask questions. Extramarital affairs were severely frowned upon in Alystierian law, and were they discovered, Masterson knew the ramifications to both of them would be dire.

Still, it was the happiest 18 months of his life, a time when passionate dreams and emotions that once he could’ve never imagined possible flourished like the crops themselves. For a time, even his bloodthirsty lust for power began to wane with the ever-shifting priorities of his complicated existence.

On the eve of the couple’s second year together, and after months of anguished equivocation, Masterson made the decision to end it with Kara. By then, there was little point in continuing the charade any further. Delarla was pregnant, a fact that could only be concealed for so long, but beyond that, he loved her more than his own life and the thought of carrying on with this dual existence nauseated him. Furthermore, he was fiercely determined to be to this child the father that he himself had never had, and to go forward with the status quo precluded his ability to do that. Whatever the cost to his career, which could possibly end in dishonorable discharge, he would pay it.

That may have been the first miscalculation of Masterson’s life. It would also be the last.

Against his most fervent pleas for leniency to his forbidden family, Chancellor Zier, maddened with rage at this most egregious of betrayals to his family’s honor, ordered the child—a son—to be stripped of his identity and placed into the Alystierian government’s shoddy foster care system. Meanwhile Delarla, Tavarous, and the four guards who’d helped to protect their secret were redeployed as of immediately to the Prelyn, an aging frigate stationed on the outer edge of the Rayez territories.

In his mind’s eye, Masterson could still see the headline atop the report—the one that had anonymously appeared three months later—through the bars of his cage in solitary, along with a fresh bathroom bucket, a slice of bread, and the day’s water rations.

“Six crewmen dead after Prelyn cargo bay tragedy. Investigation deems faulty 0
₂
recyclers as cause of accidental asphyxiation.”

Masterson had never known pain prior to that moment. Not in the cold, rainy nights of his vagrant youth or the countless wounds he’d earned in battle. Not even in the faint, early memories of his father, whose hard leather belt had ripped at his flesh so many times before. None of it compared to this, and even so, he would’ve experience it all over again, a thousandfold, if it meant he could bring back his family. But that wasn’t possible.

That was the day when Alec Masterson—the man, the husband, and the would-be father—died.

Six months in solitary confinement later, what rose from that dark hole was something else entirely—a new kind of monster. Visibly leaner, and boasting a nearly albino-pale complexion that made him appear more wraith than man, he was cold, calculated, ruthless, and driven in the relentless pursuit of one, singular end… revenge. Before, he would’ve been content to wait in line and work his way up through the conventional ranks to get what he wanted, but what he wanted had changed. This was no longer about the chancellorship, though he would have that, too. No, it was about far more than that now. It was about the death of the man who had so mercilessly robbed him of his one chance at real happiness, the price for which could be nothing short of the complete and total annihilation of his entire bloodline. Wife, children, grandchildren—and most especially that bitch he would now be forced to return to for the sake of public pretenses—they would all pay.

This would not be a quick process. It would take time—years, perhaps—but he had the patience for it. The hole had taught him that, and climbing into the transport that would take him back to what remained of his old life, Masterson made a silent, solemn vow: When that glorious day finally arrived, and the hour of his vengeance was at hand, he would bathe himself in their blood… and he would revel in it.

As expected, the affair had been kept tightly under wraps by the Zier family, for fear of sullying their hallowed name in the public eye. As such, Masterson returned to his chair on the Myralord bridge with little question, having allegedly completed the six-month special assignment that he’d been so mysteriously absent for all this time. The officers under him, and the populace at large, hailed his exultant return, and while this gave him no personal comfort, it did serve to send a message to Zier—a message that said, “Too many classified missions, and people will grow curious as to what their hero is up to.”

From then on, Masterson went out of his way to make every encounter, no matter the scale, a brazenly triumphant spectacle of Alystierian supremacy and pride. Over time, his bloody exploits became the stuff of legend, and while this served to reinforce his growing image of invincibility, it also gave him immense personal satisfaction to know that such brutal methods were utterly abhorrent to Zier, a man whose obsolete code of conduct rendered him useless as a commander in Masterson’s mind. Win or lose, live or die, first blood or your blood, victory or death… that was Masterson’s code, and as the bodies piled higher, the people loved him for it.

The years following his return from exile came and went, and as the Auran negotiations over control of the Kendaran mine began to unravel, making a conflict all but inevitable, Chancellor Zier was forced to appoint a new commandant of the Alystierian fleet following the untimely death of its previous leader at the hands of a heart attack. The coroner had found that odd considering the man—who was only 54—had never suffered from cardiac problems in his life, but with the long awaited civil war now looming, a successor would have to be named. The people’s choice was unanimous, and on March 21
^st
of that year, Alec Masterson—pristinely dressed in his new black regalia—was officially sworn in as the 18
^th
commandant of the Alystierian Empire.

That was 26 months ago, the same day that Lt. Jensen Hourne—a promising young soldier with starlit blond hair, golden eyes, and a relentless sense of ambition that rivaled even Masterson’s own—arrived aboard the Kamuir, having finally been granted his request for transfer.

****

Masterson slumped back in his chair—his hands clenched into fists, his grief-stricken mind still reeling from the tragedy at Myrick 4—and wept.

He could still remember that fateful day when the young man had first introduced himself in the Kamuir’s orientation briefing. His record had been impeccable, filled with glowing reviews from his previous commanders, who raved of his exemplary conduct under fire—not that Masterson had needed any of this to know the boy’s identity. One look into those familiar golden eyes and it had all come rushing back to him in a gush of memory and fatherly pride.

Having learned from past experiences, Masterson made sure that no one—not even his XO—learned of Hourne’s true origins. As far as anyone knew, he was an impressive officer who’d worked his way up the ladder like anyone else, and for the time being, it would need to remain that way. Masterson would not risk being denied the chance to know him a second time, and to reveal his identity now meant jeopardizing not only the boy’s life, but quite possibly his own as well. For that reason, Hourne had shaved his head free of his mother’s blonde hair, and allowed his facial hair to grow, further obscuring the features that might’ve been recognized by Zier or Kara.

In the months that ensued, Masterson had watched proudly from the Kamuir’s bridge as the young man blossomed into a first-class commander under his tutelage, winning battle after battle and campaign after campaign, culminating with his highly publicized victory in the Phaxus engagement. It was there that Hourne had led a handful of ships against a small Auran armada, destroying every ship that stood against them—including the vaunted AS-Legacy—in a decisive victory that had earned him a promotion to captain.