Free Hera by Chrystalla Thoma

Chapter One
     
     
    T he sky stretching
over the urban sprawl of Artemisia was a blazing blue, the day
bright and windy, just perfect for a first coast patrol. Hera
wondered what the town looked like from up close. When they’d
arrived in the early dawn, flown in by helicopter, she had only
caught a brief glimpse of it, a web of tall buildings and dark
streets. The military Gultur complex where they had landed was
located at the outskirts, protected with high walls and fences.
    She stepped onto the hard nepheline deck of the wavebreaker, her black boots rasping on the rough
surface, and climbed down into the co-driver’s seat. Absently she
pulled on her safety belt, then reached to her hip and checked if
the safety catch of her longgun was on.
    Footsteps rang on the deck, and a moment
later Sacmis climbed in beside her, grinning. “Ready?”
    Hera grunted a vague reply. Of course she was
ready; they’d trained for patrolling for most of the past year. If
only she could concentrate on the task at hand and not on that
other matter...
    The engine of the wavebreaker, an old
speedboat model launched at least ten years back, rumbled into life
and Sacmis mumbled a quiet, “Here we go.”
    Hera looked back at the town as they sped out
of the port and saw nothing but faint lights flickering. Then
those, too, faded as they circumvented a cape and raced alongside
sheer cliffs, slicing smoothly through the waves toward the
north.
    Sacmis drove, her sandy hair pulled back in a
neat ponytail in the standard military style, long strands whipping
in the wind, her expression distant but determined.
    Hera just stared at her, fingering her own
non-standard hairdo – a thick braid wrapped around her head like a
ribbon – her mind not quite on the task of patrolling.
    Which was unexpected, ill-timed and annoying,
given it was her first official unsupervised patrol as a member of
the elite Gultur force, granted the privilege and power to make
decisions.
    But finding an old message from her mother
the previous night had also been unexpected and ill-timed – a
message Hera had discovered hidden inside an old scripture book at
the bottom of a drawer in her room.
    Hidden. Or just forgotten . Meant for
Hera. Or not. Her mother, Tefnut, wherever she was currently
posted, probably did not even remember her daughter anymore.
    Then who was it written for? The message
spoke of things best left unsaid – the War, the lesser mortals, the
future. It fanned embers of doubt that had burned in Hera’s mind
for some time now. ‘ The mortals did not start the Great
War . ’ The words floated before her eyes. ‘They
suffered like we did , if not more . ’
    That was blasphemy and would land her mother
in jail if it became known. Of course, that was only if Tefnut
still lived, something Hera would probably never know. Mothers were
not allowed to see their daughters after these entered the service
at the age of four. Twelve years had passed already.
    Hera had hesitated, about to burn the piece
of parchment, wondering why she wanted to save a mother she could
barely remember. All she recalled was a feather-light touch on her
brow, a soft voice singing in her ear. A lullaby, soft musical
notes and a warm breath caressing her neck.
    She raised a hand to touch the spot and shook
her head. Maybe that had not been the reason she’d kept the
message. What if... What if there was some truth in those
words? Tefnut’s words had sounded like those of an insurgent. A
rebel. A member of the resistance. Maybe even of the Undercurrent
group, the oldest name linked with the rebels.
    Hera shook herself and took in the landscape
they sped through. Stop making up stories in your mind. There had to be a perfectly good and innocuous explanation for that
message.
    Right.
    On the far right, the islands of Kukno and
Torq formed dark masses shrouded in fog, mountains and glittering
towns visible in places. The wavebreaker bumped on the choppy sea
and Hera patted her safety