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CHAPTER 3

The sun was brightly shining over the Triticum farm, though somewhat lessened of late as summer was turning to autumn. Its rays were cooled every so often by a soft wind that ruffled the fur of the wolf and fox as they stood in an open field to the southwest of the house. The Reaper was busily cutting grain in the near distance, its activity kicking up a lazy billow of fine reddened dusk behind it as it moved. The rainy season was still months away.

Scott pointed to a digital terrain map of his entire farm as John watched closely. The property was laid out as a series of perfect squares and rectangles highlighted in different colors, each indicating a different crop in different stages of development. The wolf's claw passed over the field they were presently in and he tapped it thoughtfully.

"You see," said Scott, "this field right here should be ready to plant next as soon as we're done with the harvest, but the soil monitor says it should be replaced with lentils and we're not ready for those yet." He scratched his brow. "I suppose we could seed it now with barley and plant this one over here with lentils next week."

John rubbed a paw along his long ears as he thought for a moment. "Yeah...but according to this the soil there might be too acidic for barley. Maybe rye instead?"

Scott nodded his agreement. "Rye it is, then." The wolf made a note on the digital pad. "And John, remind me to get on the line with Central about those lentils for next week. I'm tired of 'em always pushing back our orders."

The fox smirked and flicked his tail to the affirmative. A beeping alarm sounded from his vest and he pulled a small cell phone from the pocket.

"Hi Sarah, what do ya need?" The phone kept them in communication with the house at all times. John pulled the phone from his ear and passed it to the wolf. "Sarah says there's someone to see you at the house," he said, clearly intrigued.

Scott furrowed his brow, not just a little concerned. "Sarah? Is there a problem?"

"I hope not, sir," the vixen said. "They said they're from the Imperial Navy."

At that Scott's ears perked. "Okay, I'll be there in a few moments," he said before hanging up. "Hmm." The Navy? What could they possibly want with him? "Perhaps they've finally approved my pension. John? Keep an eye on things while I see what they need, okay."

"Sure thing."

When Scott returned to the house the wolf found a pair of sharply-uniformed naval officers seated patiently in his living room. They stood at his entrance and Scott could see they were both lieutenants. He told Sarah to wait for him in the other room, and the vixen made a good show of bowing obediently and shuffling off submissively, her tail hung low to the floor.

"Lieutenant Commander Scott Banks?" asked one of the officers.

Scott nodded. "Yes...but I'm retired now, lieutenant."

"Not anymore, sir," said the second officer as he passed Scott a computer tablet. "You've been reactivated, sir."

As Scott gripped the tablet in his paw the screen activated at his touch and a soft voice sang out, "Identity confirmed: Group Commander Scott Banks."

Scott's eyes narrowed. "Group Commander?"

"Yes, sir. You've been promoted. I believe congratulations are in order, sir."

But the wolf wasn't amused. "I resigned, gentleman. When I got married. I'm no longer an officer in the Imperial Navy and haven't been for years."

The first lieutenant shifted uncomfortably on his paws. "We realize that, sir, but that's no longer the case. We're under orders from the admiralty to bring you to Radon Frontier Command...and they have the authority by the High Council."

The High Council? Scott tensed at the realization that he had no room to argue. A million thoughts and questions raced through his mind at once, mostly concerning what would happen to his farm while he was gone. And to John and Sarah, for that matter. He couldn't leave them there unattended.

"And if I refuse?"

The younger wolves looked to each other briefly. The second of the two, who had remained silence so far, swallowed hard before facing Scott again. "You can't, sir," he said evenly, quietly.

Bearing his fangs angrily he growled, "I see. Do you mind telling me what this is about?"

The second officer cleared his throat with a cough. "Uh sir, most of it is top secret and would be better discussed in a more appropriate setting. But what I can say is that there's been a breach of security in the Radon Frontier and the High Council has reason to believe that you have necessary means to restore its defense."

Scott laughed aloud at hearing that statement. "Something must really be wrong then if they feel I'm so damned important. Tell me...where am I going?"

"You've been stationed aboard the Mourning Son, sir. It's a state-of-the-art carrier."

"And what about my slaves then? I won't have them relocated while I'm away for someone else to damage my property," he rumbled angrily. John would undoubtedly be sent to another farm and whipped day after day. He shuddered when he considered what might befall Sarah. She was beautiful, he had to admit, and slave or not she might be forced to satisfy some filthy master's desires. It unfortunately happened often enough.

"Sir, as a fleet-grade officer you're entitled to bring up to three personal slaves on board with you."

That sounded hardly better than the alternative, but what choice did he have?

"Very well, lieutenant. Give me a day to prepare."

The younger wolf shook his head. "Respectfully, sir, you have three hours, and no more."

Scott mumbled a curse under his breath, but nodded reluctantly.

***

John had never seen a spacecraft before other than in pictures or on the telenet. Now that he was actually on a trans-galactic ship far greater than he had ever imagined, the fox found it impossible not to stare in amazement at the wonders of science and engineering all around him. The Mourning Son was larger than most buildings on Triticum, noted John; but how many buildings could travel from one end of the galaxy to another in the blink of an eye? Or carry a complement of over one hundred fighters, five dozen troop transports, and many other vessels?

It was impressive, certainly, but its military payload was not what John was especially interested in. He was an engineer at heart.

As their transport approached the hull of the ship he could see through a window that the craft itself was built like a slender wing with swept-back edges, much like a very thick chrome boomerang. It was an Iberian-class cruiser with four heavy-ion propulsion engines that pulsated with a fine blue-white light as they hung in space on standby. Although it wasn't visible to the outside observer, a jump-drive reactor was stowed safely within the bulk of the ship somewhere unseen. John had only read about the jump-drive system in a brief outline in a book given to him by his master. They were more computer than machine really: A massively powerful quantum processor that, on command, would generate a sub-matter field around the ship and dissolve its very atoms and everything in it. The navigation computer would assist the jump-drive in directing the resultant energy to any point in the known universe, where it would (supposedly) be reconstituted into solid matter, perfectly unharmed. In truth, the whole idea scared the fox to death. Imagine the navigation computer was wrong and half the ship rematerialized inside a moon or large asteroid, maybe even a star? John preferred to stick with mechanics, which rarely ever changed its subatomic structure. That was comforting, in a way.

Everything here was different than at home: The wolves around them (there were about thirty or so on this particular transport) all behaved differently and wore different clothes. Scott stood beside John and Sarah, dressed in a new fleet uniform; a close-fitting thing made of a satin black cloth that rustled ever so slightly as he moved. The wolf said it was the most uncomfortable thing he'd worn in three years. Scott stood stiff-necked and stared wordlessly out a window, probably at the Mourning Son, just as John was. Whether it was the new setting they were in, the company around them, or the uniform he now wore that made his master so reserved and quiet, John could only guess. He didn't dare speak unless directly spoke to in this environment.

John felt a sudden jab to his side and he started. Sarah was glaring at him from the corner of her eye, her muzzle dipped toward the floor.

"Stop looking around and keep your eyes down, you idiot," she hissed. "Remember what Scott...what master said?"

The fox nodded and dipped his muzzle down submissively, but kept his eyes fixed on the view in the window before him.

The transport slowly dropped down into a massive hanger on the top surface of carrier and with a subtle rumble the massive hanger door sealed and the deck was pressurized. As the wolves filed off the transport and onto the deck, the two fox siblings followed Scott closely behind.

It had been several years since Scott had set paw on a military carrier. Almost enough time to forget its natural anxiety that had once been a fact of life. During military training a sailor will spend over four months adjusting to a confined life, something that felt so unnatural, even frightening, to a young wolf. The urge to roam across open spaces could be tremendous on long voyages--maddening even. The Imperial Navy had learned long ago how best to counter a wolf's instinctual fear of tight spaces: large recreation halls, sky blue paint on the ceilings, and a constant current of fresh air through the cabin. Failing that, the ship's therapist was always ready to help calm a nervous crewmember, both with words and a good supply of antipsychotics.

As Scott stepped from the transport, an ensign approached and saluted, welcoming him aboard the ship. "Good afternoon, sir. I'm Ensign William Yard. I know it's been a long trip, but the commander requests your presence immediately. Your slaves will be seen to the dormitory. Sir, if you'll follow me..."

Scott bade the foxes a reassuring nod and hoped they were prepared for their new lifestyle. He had warned them that foxes were only allowed to live in the slave quarters. It was little more than a kennel.

He was led down a long corridor to one of the ship's many conference rooms, and as he passed through the halls that familiar anxiety was quickly returning. Glancing casually around the Mourning Son's interior he took note of how narrow the hallway was, how every door they passed appeared to be sealed shut, and how stale the air smelled. Half of his brain kept looking for an exit, a way to escape to the outside if necessary. The other half knew full well there wasn't one.

Scott drew in a deep breath, letting it out in a long quiet sigh. It would take a few days to adjust, even after so many years of living it in the past.

The corridor began to arc slightly, following the contour of the huge carrier's hull. The hallway seemed to be without end.

"Ensign Yard?" he asked his escort. "How large is this ship, anyway?"

"Sir, the Mourning Son is a state-of-the-art Iberian class battle carrier," the young wolf said proudly. "It's nearly three kilometers in width, almost two kilometers from stem to stern, with seventeen decks and two control bridges. On a normal voyage we'll have a crew of just under twenty four hundred, a thousand marines, and maybe a hundred civilians or so depending on the mission. We have one hundred and twenty-five fighters in the hanger bay, several-dozen drop ships, and an assortment of transport shuttles and service ships."

Scott laughed lightly. "Almost sorry I asked."

The younger officer walking beside him smirked. "Should I tell you the weapons schematics as well, sir?"

"That's quite alright, ensign. Actually, I would like to know why it's call the 'Mourning Son.'"

"Ah. Sir, are you familiar with the Fable of Sir Hulbert?"

Scott nodded. "Oh...well I suppose that makes sense."

The Fable of Sir Hulbert was a popular tale to tell cubs and youngsters. In ancient times there was a tragic war between the wolf clans on the home world before they were united under one emperor. Sir Hulbert was a noble knight devoted to fighting for his master's glory. One night, during the war, he received word that his noble mother's territory was under siege by a rival pack. His lord forbade him to leave, charging him to instead remain and protect him from his own enemies. His pack was attacked and devastated, his family murdered. Although he had served his own master nobly, Sir Hulbert mourned his inability to aid his pack for the rest of his life. It was more or less a lesson in loyalty and devotion.

The pair stopped in front of a door that was identical to any other on the ship. The ensign tapped the wall control and it slid open, revealing a drab grey room with a long grey table at its center.

"Sir, if you would wait in here," he pointed a claw through the open frame, "I'll let the admiral know you're here. Oh, I almost forgot! I'll be your personal sponsor while you're on board. Should you need anything, sir, please let me know."

Scott nodded. "Thanks, ensign. I will."

Ensign Yard offered a salute and disappeared down the hall.

The conference room, like the rest of the ship, had light grey-painted walls that were clean and bare. The ceiling, of course, was sky blue and faintly illuminated to give the feeling of daytime. It was not unlike the last ship he had served on before "retiring" from the Imperial Navy. The ILS Stanza was a considerably smaller support cruiser, a scaled-down and less modern version of the Mourning Son with the same colors and curves. On the Stanza it was easy to learn every wolf's name. He sincerely doubted as much from the Mourning Son.

Taking a seat at the long table, the wolf rapped his paw patiently on the cool metal surface, his blunt claws making an echoing tap, tap, tap. When the door finally slid open with a quiet hiss, admitting an admiral-grade officer into the room, Scott stood instinctively to attention; his back ridged and his paws held firmly to the seam of his pants.

"Relax, Commander Banks," the admiral quickly said. "What's formality between old friends, eh?"

Scott shook his head in surprise, a grin forming on his muzzle. "Chris Hartford! I should have known it would be you dragging me out of retirement."

Admiral Hartford stood shorter than Scott Banks by a fraction, though the somewhat older of the two wolves was broader in the shoulders. He was mostly light grey in the fur, though the color was broken on his face by white markings about the eyes and muzzle. When his long-time friend and coworker extended a paw, palm up, Scott was quick to dip his nose to sniff the rough pads. Scott offered his own paw, and the admiral returned the gesture with a sniff of his own as old friends should do. His nose wrinkled, however, as he looked up.

"You smell of fox, my friend."

It sounded more like a statement of fact than an accusation, and Scott did his best to ignore the tensions that rose in his chest. Shrugging casually he answered, "My slaves. I've brought them with me."

Admiral Hartford frowned. "Yes, so I've been told. Two of them."

"That won't be a problem, will it?"

Hartford shook his head slowly. "No, so long as you keep them in the pen after duty hours. Under any other time regulations wouldn't be so strict, but we've encountered something...unusual, to say the least. Please, Scott, have a seat."

The wolves took their seats, one across from the other. Admiral Hartford passed Scott a computer pad. "Now, to the reason that I brought you here. I'm sure you're wondering why I called you from your happy retirement."

Scott raised an eyebrow, beckoning his companion and now commanding officer to continue.

The admiral cleared his throat. "You were a damn fine officer, I'll give you that. I should be glad you retired when you did, otherwise it would be you in my uniform, I think."

"I sincerely doubt that," said Scott. It wasn't a lie. Seeing as Hartford's father was such an influential member of the High Council it wasn't difficult to connect the dots.

Admiral Hartford picked up a computer tablet, one of several stacked up before him. "You were awarded the distinguished Medal of Lupine Merit from the Council shortly before you retired. That is certainly impressive...few wolves can say they've earned that!"

Scott's chest tightened at the numerous terrifying memories attached to that one award. "It was a matter of duty only, sir," he muttered under his breath. "I didn't earn it."

"That's not what I remember. You saved the lives of over five hundred souls that day at Procyon, Scott. You could have had any command you desired after that."

There had been a brief but costly battle between the Seventh Lupine Fleet and a confederation of rebels near the raccoon homeworld of Procyon, a protectorate of the Lupine Empire. The naval battle was tremendously heated and his ship--the ILS Stanza--was crippled in the fight. Scott could remember it clearly. The smoke. The fire. The smell of burning flesh and the strained whimper of the injured for help. Somehow, through the haze and noise, he had managed to avert their destruction. The High Council had called it an act of heroism; saving the lives of the entire Stanza crew...or those that weren't already dead. He was awarded the Medal of Lupine Merit as soon as he was released from the hospital for severe burns he had sustained in the process. He still had patches on his back where the fur didn't completely grow back.

Scott felt his brow furrow suspiciously. There was certainly more to this situation than some admiral's need for a good officer. "I was briefed before arriving here that a potentially hostile alien race destroyed a remote outpost in the Radon Frontier. With all due respect, Admiral, why the hell do you need me? I neither worked in military intelligence, nor alien relations. There are any number of wolves in the Navy that would do you better."

Admiral Hartford leaned back in his chair and folded his paws over his broad chest. Scott knew that he was sizing him up, and he didn't like it.

"That may be true," said the admiral, "but none of them would have as much...personal interested in the case as you, Scott."

If Scott was suspicious before, he was now confused, and not just a little angry. "For the gods' sake, Chris, would you cut the crap!"

Chris Hartford looked down at one of the computer pads set before him and slid it across the table to Scott's paw. "It concerns Army Cadet Elijah Gardner. I understand he's a relation of yours."

"Yes, my nephew." His sister's son. "But he's--"

"He was assigned to the outpost station that was destroyed four days ago," the admiral interrupted, reading from a computerized file. "That is his file there...A top student in his class, excellent scores. Requested an internship in the technology field, and was awarded it. He was the only wolf found alive on that station, Scott. In fact he was the only one found on that station at all. The station was destroyed by a time-delayed bomb shortly after he was transported off the planet to this ship."

Scott was wide-eyed. "My gods. Is he okay?"

"Frankly...no. He's been in what the doctors describe as a comma since the incident, but that's not entirely true. He's been--for lack of a better term--experiencing a manic episode. He'll be unconscious for long periods of time, displaying very little brain activity. Then suddenly he's awake."

The look on Scott's face was a mixture of confusion, shock, and abject horror. "Is he responsive? Can he talk to anyone?"

Admiral Hartford nodded. "That's the strange part. He requested you by name. He claims to be someone else, using Cadet Gardner's body as a medium. He refuses to cooperate with anybody else."

"Is he on board? Take me to him!"

***

The Mourning Son's sick bay was an appropriately large sector of the ship, complete with its own psych ward. In a small examination room, one of several, sat Elijah Gardner. Although he had not yet displayed any violent tendencies since arriving on the ship, the ward staff felt it was a necessary precaution to fit the young wolf's wrists and ankles with energy cuffs. They remained unrestrictive now, but could be activated at a moment's notice.

"You're lucky he's awake now, sir. He spends most of the day in a comatose state. We honestly have no idea what to make of it," explained a member of the sick bay staff. The elderly wolf tapped a screen with a paw as he explained to Scott. "This here is the normal brain readout we have of Cadet Gardner on record. Now this is what we are currently reading from him. As you can see they are noticeably different. He's perfectly healthy otherwise. Vitals normal. Appetite normal. Sensory normal. Yet, despite all logic, he's perfectly capable of conversation and reasoning, though his readout would not suggest so. I've never seen anything like it before. No one has. Simply put, Commander, there's obviously someone in there, but it's not Elijah Gardner."

Scott glanced from the display to his nephew sitting on a low cot behind a one-way mirror. He looked to the panel again, the jagged wave-like patterns jumping across the screen.

"We're all very glad you're here. You're the only person he seems willing to speak to, and we're very curious as to what he, or it, wants." There was a hint of giddy excitement in the old wolf's voice.

"Thank you, doctor." Scott stepped around the observation wall and slipped into the small room. He watched the young wolf's eyes follow him hollowly as he carried a chair from across the room and took a seat opposite him. It was disturbing to Scott how his nephew gazed so neutrally at him, as if his presence had no influence on his mood at all.

After a long moment of silence Scott began to feel uneasy. "Can you hear me, Eli. This is your Uncle Scott."

"I'm afraid your nephew cannot hear you," came the reply. It was eerily calm, the voice no different than what Scott remembered belonged to his sister's only son. "But I assure you, Commander Scott Banks of the Greywind Clan, the youth will not be harmed so long as you and your kind are cooperative with me."

His words were almost frightening, and Scott was surprised to hear his nephew use his full title and name. "Eli, what are you talking about?"

"Please understand, Commander Banks, that this is not your nephew you are speaking to, as I have already explained to your medical staff. I am projecting my consciousness through this youth. A possession, if you would prefer to think of it in those terms. I can read this wolf's memories, and he knows much about you."

A shiver ran down Scott's back from neck to tail-tip, and the older wolf could only stare in disbelief, unsure of what to make of it. Eli would never have taken a practical joke this far; and jugging by the brain activity he had seen moments before of the young wolf, it was doubtful he could if he wanted to. He turned to glance at the wall behind him, hoping to receive some kind of support from the staff on the other side. "Then tell me, who are you and why have you 'possessed' my nephew."

"If you must know my name is Ionious. But who I am is not entirely important, but rather what I am. I am the elected spokesman for my race, temporarily connected to this youth. I am using his body as a means of communication, nothing more. When the link is broken his mind and body will be restored without lasting damage. He will have no memory of this."

Scott's hackles rose at the creature's threat. "You're asking me for cooperation while you threaten my nephew's life? What exactly do you want from us?"

"An understanding between our two races."

Scott snorted angrily, unimpressed by this sort of pandering. There was something awfully foreboding about this little chat. "You said that you were 'connected' with my nephew. Does that mean you are...transmitting from somewhere nearby?"

The young wolf he remembered as a boisterous young pup stared back emotionlessly. "'Near' is a relative term, Commander Banks. By your species' standard I am quite far away. My body is currently one hundred seventeen light-years from your location."

Scott couldn't hide his surprise. His eyes darted to the wall over his shoulder, knowing that Admiral Hartford and the medical staff were watching intently from behind the one-way paneling. "One hundred seventeen light-years! How is it that you can speak to me in real time? That's an incredible distance!"

The strange being used the young wolf to scoff at the officer. "You will find, wolf, that my people are highly advanced. More so than yours."

Scott was becoming increasingly more uncomfortable with the conversation, especially with the way he practically spat the word "wolf." It was clear that he wanted something, and was willing to use subtle threats--or force--as leverage to get it. "Why did you attack our outpost without so much as a warning?"

"It was necessary. Nobody was harmed, I promise you, but they are all being held until such time as we deem fit to release--or terminate--them. Your species has already proven itself capable of great violence and destruction. It was determined to be the best course of action to gain your attention and demonstrate the absolute severity of our mission here."

"Which is," Scott growled irately.

"The safe and immediate release of the settlers you imprisoned and enslaved from the planet you now call 'Triticum.'"

"Settlers? I'm afraid I don't understand."

"The race you have enslaved. Members of my race. You call us 'foxes' in your language."

Scott sat silently for a moment, incredulously examining his possessed nephew for some sign of deceit. Some indication that he was being played as a fool. But the young wolf's face remained just as neutral as before. This being that displayed no emotion--whether it was wolven on the outside or not--was unreadable, and it made Scott nervous.

"So what you're saying is that you're a fox," he asked. "An escaped slave?"

Again, the younger wolf snorted in distain. "Slave, you call me? Such an idea offends me to the center of my being, Commander Banks. That your race has imprisoned and enslaved another sentient one demonstrates a total disregard for the value of lives not your own."

Scott rocked back in shock at the cold accusation as the being's words cut through him.

The being continued. "What I have already told you is true. My people...your slaves...They are one in the same, and we cannot allow this evil to continue. We are prepared to take them by force if necessary. And should it come to that you will have little chance of stopping us. That I can guarantee."

The fur on the back of Scott's neck tingled with warning. "How is it that we can believe you? That you are what you say you are?"

"Contact will be made soon enough, Commander. As to our abilities..."

Scott watched as the being raised Eli's paw, palm up, and into it materialized a computer tablet. The young wolf handed this devise to Scott, who found that it was not only solid, but fully functioning. "We adapted some information to your technology. These are some schematics you may be interested in seeing."

It was a blueprint for what Scott assumed was a ship of some kind, but it was like nothing he'd ever seen before. It was massive! At least ten times the size of the Mourning Son. Then a thought occurred to him, and he looked up in surprise. "How could you--"

"Teleport this through your ship's defensive shields?"

Scott nodded, his eyes shifting to the wolves behind the glass. Chris was already shouting into an intercom.

"We wield technology and understanding beyond what you could muster, wolf. For your sake, do not underestimate us. If we chose to we could teleport a thermonuclear weapon directly into this room before you could so much as whimper for deliverance."

Scott's eyes widened. "Would you?"

"No. We are not a violent race. Aggressive, yes, when it is warranted. But should it come to that a nuclear weapon would be completely unnecessary. Should we chose to we could influence your very atoms to destroy you. Now, take this information to your superiors and warn them well. Your crimes will not be allowed to continue."

Without another word the young wolf laid down on the cot and closed his eyes. After a long moment of silence the door opened and the sick bay orderly poked his muzzle into the room.

"He's returned to a comatose state, Commander. He won't be awake again for some time. But then, it's not really up to us..."

Stepping from the small room, somewhat shell-shocked, Scott lifted the schematic and studied it incredulously, worry written all over his face.

Admiral Hartford was pounding a fist against the intercom control on the wall.

"...I'm telling you, Captain, the shields can't be up!...Why? We just had a breech, damn it!"