Marko Kloos [Kloos - Aftershocks (The Palladium Wars)

ALSO BY MARKO KLOOS

FRONTLINES

Terms of Enlistment

Lines of Departure

Angles of Attack

Chains of Command

Fields of Fire

Points of Impact

Measures of Absolution (A Frontlines Kindle novella)

Lucky Thirteen (A Frontlines Kindle short story)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text copyright 2019 by Marko Kloos

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by 47North, Seattle

www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781542043557 (hardcover)

ISBN-10: 1542043557 (hardcover)

ISBN-13: 9781542043533 (paperback)

ISBN-10: 1542043530 (paperback)

Cover design by Shasti OLeary Soudant

First edition

For Robin, who keeps this train firmly on the tracks so I can sit back in the lounge car and make up stuff all day long.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

ADEN

Even from the windows of a prison, Rhodia was a beautiful place.

Aden liked to spend the half hour between breakfast and morning orders sitting in the central atrium by himself. From seven hundred meters up, the panoramic windows offered a stunning view of what seemed like most of the southern half of the continent. The graceful and elegant arcologies of the capital rose into the sky in the distance, so tall that on some days their tops disappeared in the clouds. Beyond, the ocean shimmered, turquoise and blue. For variety, the Rhodians moved their POWs from one section of the detainment arcology to another every year, each time facing a different cardinal direction so every prisoner could have a change of scenery. Last year, Aden had a stunning view of the great snowcapped mountain range that divided the single continent of this planet. This year, it was the distant city, ocean, and tranquil skies. He had been a prisoner of war for five years, but Aden still hadnt quite made up his mind whether a beautiful prison was really better than an austere one.

At the end of the war, right after his capture, the Alliance had used the warships of their defeated enemies to hold POWs until they could figure out what to do with them. By the time the surrender treaty was signed, Aden had spent six months in a two-person berth on a Gretian battlecruiser, sharing the tiny space with a surly lieutenant colonel from the Blackguard infantry. The food had been barely ediblethe Alliance had fed them the surplus military rations they found when they took over the Gretian depotsand Aden hadnt seen sunlight the whole time. When they finally transferred him to the detainment arcology, he had lost almost ten kilos of muscle mass from living in low g for so long, and sharing crew facilities made for five hundred with almost one thousand other POWs had been claustrophobic and nerve grinding. But he had dealt with it because it was impersonal, utilitarian, and expected. They had lost the war, and they had to take what was served by the victors.

The detainment arcology here on Rhodia was a prison, but it was a posh one. Back home on Gretia, no amount of money would buy a living space with a view like this. Gretian buildings did not reach a kilometer into the sky. Even the food on Rhodia was good, which had vaguely annoyed Aden after a while because he had to moderate himself and work out more to keep the weight off. It all seemed a little like the Rhodians were rubbing it in. Look where we can lodge even our captured war criminals. Look what we can afford to feed you. Just look at the view you get to enjoy every day.

There was no mistreatment, no disrespect, just detached professionalism from the military police that ran the prison. They had a barber, a theater, a mess hall, a gym, an outdoor garden concourse that jutted out of the facade of the arcology in a hundred-meter semicircle, private rooms, and personal comtabs with limited and curated access to the Mnemosyne, the system-wide data network. The only thing that made it different from a resort hotel was the security lock at the far end of the atrium, which only let you through if you were a Rhodian MP and stunned you into a thirty-minute stupor if you werent. But the fact that he couldnt leave whenever he wanted made it a prison, no matter how pretty the views were.

The soft two-tone trill of an official announcement interrupted Adens thoughts. Even the address system in the atrium was calm and low-key to preserve the tranquility of the place.

Morning orders in five minutes. All personnel, report to the assembly square of your residential wing. Announcement ends.

Aden rubbed his hand along his jawline to appraise his shave, even though he knew he hadnt missed any stubble this morning. Then he turned away from the panoramic window and walked back toward the elevator bank, checking the fasteners on his pockets to make sure none were undone. It had been five years since he had been in an active military or worn a Gretian uniform, but his twelve years of service before the defeat had ingrained a lot of habits so deeply that he doubted hed ever lose them.

Morning orders were standard issue; everyoneguards and prisoners alikewas on autopilot. A Rhodian NCO called the roll, and the prisoners reported able or sick. The arcologys AI knew where everyone was at all times, but habits and protocol died hard, and it was just one of the ten thousand ways the Rhodies had to make sure everyone knew who had won and who had lost the war. After roll, a fresh-faced Rhody lieutenant stepped up, and the NCO presented the POW platoon as inspected and ready.

Good morning, the Rhodian lieutenant said in his own language. The translator bud in Adens left ear rendered the phrase in Gretian a fraction of a second later.

Good morning, sir, the assembled platoon of Gretians replied as one. Aden barely mouthed the words. The Rhodian lieutenant looked like he was maybe two years out of officer school. The POWs, lined up in formation, stood in order of their rank as they always did, even though the Gretian military had ceased to exist five years ago. A quarter of the formation outranked the Rhody lieutenant, and more than a few of them were old enough to be his father, Aden included. But the Rhody officer was the detainment unit supervisor of the day, and therefore by definition their superior. They had all learned that when you become a prisoner of war, the first thing the enemy confiscates is your pride.

You all have the updated duty roster on your comtabs. Section One will be at the hydroponic farm today. Section Two takes over the mess hall at 0900 hours, and Section Three is on waste disposal. Assignment details are up to section leaders as usual. Sick personnel will report to the infirmary by 0830.

As the most senior officer remaining in the company, Aden was the leader of Section One. Of all the work assignments, he minded the hydroponic farm the least. It was as outside as he could get in the arcology because it was nestled inside the loop made by the exterior garden concourse. Some of the POWs were agoraphobic and hated the farmwork because of the knowledge that nothing but a thirty-centimeter layer of titanium and carbon composites stood between the soles of their boots and a free fall of seven hundred meters, but Aden was not one of them. Rhodians were mediocre at warship design, but they were masters of arcology building, and Aden had never felt the garden platforms so much as sway in the wind, not even in the middle of a storm.