Hechkle pushed the weights harder and harder. He felt lost, unusual for someone who rarely showed any weakness, yet recently, with the death of Princess Evelyn, doubts had crept into his thoughts. He was relatively young – still in his forties – and a strong man with yet much to do in his life, but he realised he faced an uncertain future. His doubts stemmed from how Evelyn had lost her life to Zylar post her abuse at the hands of Manek Malacca. Both Bronstorm and he had failed in their designated role, to protect the royal household. He found that the nightmares still happened every night – Evelyn’s pained face clear to him. He cranked up the speed on the weights.
‘Hey, take it easy Hechkle.’
Hechkle was brutally torn away from his self-pity by the beautiful voice of the girl he harboured a strong liking for. Amelia stood over him, dressed in lycra and having just finished an intense workout herself. He found he was tongue-tied. Even when she wore no make-up and was hot and sweaty from her running he could not but like her. He would never show his liking for her, as he could see she was head over heels in love with Tyson, young love, and that is how it should be.
‘You look like you were trying to double your muscles and I can tell you if you do that, you will need a whole new wardrobe!’ said Amelia, giggling and Hechkle laughed with her as he sat up placing the weights down safely.
Amelia was comfortable in his presence, though she wasn’t so naïve not to realise he may find her physically attractive as year after year it was a natural response she grew to recognise, allowing her to steer male attention away without hurting their feelings. With Hechkle she felt an affinity, here was someone with whom she had stood back to back and fought many battles, each had saved each other’s life a number of times and Amelia knew that Hechkle would protect her if it was necessary.
‘You look troubled?’ said Amelia, taking a swig of water from her bottle, before offering it to Hechkle, who took a long drink. ‘Hope you don’t mind me asking, you probably guess you are not the only one I see with that concern across their face,’ she said with a wry smile. Hechkle smiled, it would be good to talk.
‘I sometimes think I could have helped Evelyn more,’ said Hechkle, struggling to find the words and also seeing Bronstorm, who was pounding a boxing pad, taking an interest in their discussion.
‘Ahhh, yes, something which Tyson plays back and forward in his mind, until it drives him mad,’ said Amelia, before sighing resignedly and taking hold of the strongly muscled hand, startling him. ‘Evelyn had a destiny, and that destiny was to free her people, which she did. You played your part and how many times did you save her in Base Station Zero?’
Hechkle shrugged. ‘I don’t see it as saving her life, just doing my duty.’
‘Well, you did save her life and ours and when you released us from our imprisonment we were able to use our freedom as a spur to defeat the Malacca clan and then Zylar.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Hechkle, seeing Bronstorm swagger across to them. Amelia followed his gaze and squeezed his hand.
‘I know how much I need you and Bronstorm beside me, you both make me feel safe,’ said Amelia, as she backed off and threw a pleasant smile to Bronstorm, who went the same colour as his t-shirt…red. Hechkle made a vow there and then to be there for Amelia at whatever cost.
Amelia gave Bronstorm a quick hug and then went off to the showers. Bronstorm sat next to his friend.
‘That is some woman,’ he said.
‘Agreed,’ replied Hechkle, dropping his head in thought. He then lifted his head to look at his friend and pointed at the retreating back of Amelia. ‘Will you promise me that if either of us is injured or killed the other will protect that girl?’
Bronstorm grinned and held his hand out in the human way they had readily adopted.
‘Sure.’ They then both lapsed into silence and departed to continue their exercise, wondering at how their lives were now inexplicably tied to that of an eighteen year old girl from an alien race.
In the Captain’s Quarters on Elanda, Prescott Corder poured himself a generous portion of Talisker’s twelve year old malt whisky and made to pour another one.
‘No thank you General, I never drink on the eve of an operation.’
‘Very sensible, Lieutenant Morrison,’ said General Corder. He twirled the spirit around in the glass before raising the glass for a sip. The liquid reacted with the back of his throat, its strong taste and alcohol content soothing his slightly sore throat, the drop of water he placed in the glass making sure that the aromas impacted the back of his throat taste buds, rather than the front of his mouth.
‘What did you find out?’ General Corder was referring to his request for Lieutenant Morrison to check who the American contingent could rely upon in the event of any future disagreements.
‘The bulk of the civilians will stand with us as their main objective is safety and since our force is the largest that makes sense, although saying that, the Russian civilian contingent will side with Koshkov and I see his soldiers as the main threat.’
‘What about the Chinese, British troops and the clans?’
‘The Chinese are relatively small in number and they have no distinct relationships, the British troops are mainly English and are fans of Tyson, seeing him almost as an old fashioned hero,’ said Morrison, chuckling.
‘The English are always the ones easily led by fools,’ said General Corder, as he took another sip. ‘What about the clans?’
‘There are deep divisions between the human and Zeinonian ranks and, anyway, they see Kabel and Tate as their saviours and Kron simply as a force of nature,’ said Morrison, with a respectful tone, giving away his liking for the enforcer in the Malacca army.
‘Now, Lieutenant, don’t go liking these damn aliens too much, you know our orders.’ General Corder’s eyes narrowed, he could not have his American forces second-in-command going soft. No longer smiling Morrison met the rebuke impassively and with a terse agreement.
‘Right, that means we can only really rely on our own troops and personnel, not something I did not anticipate.’ He thought for a while and then taking a swig from his drink. ‘Make sure Nicolai’s troops are heavily used in the attack with the main Zeinonian army and those frightful creatures of theirs.’
‘You mean the Pod?’ said Morrison, trying to show no reaction to his commanding officer’s disdain for his allies. He was there to take orders and put them into the action.
‘Yes, never did I think I would see the day that the US Army would side with animals,’ said General Corder, shaking his head. Morrison bit his tongue on retorting back and rose to leave. It was at the point of opening the door when General Corder spoke again.
‘Lieutenant, if you were to return without that bastardisation of an English boy that would help us considerably,’ he said, taking another a sip of his whisky, ignoring the shocked reaction of his second-in-command. Lieutenant Morrison saluted. The bile at the back of his throat captured what he felt about that last order: orders were orders but that didn’t mean you needed to like them. He opened the door and went to brief his team for the insertion into Quentine.