A Life Worth Living
Book I: Rebel Yell
Prologue
Umoja, August 07, 2504
John woke up warm and quiet, feeling a comfortable weight spread throughout his limbs as he stretched beneath the soft sheets of his bed. The sun shone gently through soft curtains pulled across the broad windows of the bedroom, and though it was terribly late in the morning, criminally late in fact, John felt no compulsion at all to rise.
"Happy Birthday, love," a young woman whispered, her breath hot in his ear, and he turned over to face her, the grey of his eyes meeting the blue of hers.
"Thanks," he whispered back, leaning forward just slightly to kiss her soft lips.
"Been a while, hasn't it?" she said after a while, as she traced her fingers lightly across his chest.
"Almost three years."
Elissa smiled sadly at his wistful tone and kissed his forehead lightly. John had never talked about his life before they had met, some years ago, after the end of the war. She could tell that he was a Confederate by his accent – though it had mellowed in the years since he had arrived on Umoja – one of many who had fled from the new Terran Dominion being built on the ashes of their former home. What he had done or seen during that awful year John had never told her, and she had never asked.
She got up from the bed, turning and smiling at him as she felt a hand run over her back, and crossed to the closet to retrieve a soft robe to wrap herself in.
"Come on, lazy," she said over her shoulder as she left the bedroom, her blue eyes dancing as she looked at him. John gave an exaggerated groan and pulled himself reluctantly out of bed.
By the time he was dressed the smell of breakfast was wafting in from the kitchen and his bare feet padded softly over the cool tiled floor towards the enticing smell of crepes and coffee.
John entered the kitchen, kissed her neck lightly, and moved to make the coffee.
"No," she said with a smile, rapping his arm lightly with her spatula before pointing it imperiously toward the kitchen table, "sit." John raised his hands in surrender, returned her smile, and moved to sit at the table.
They spent a companionable quarter of an hour together as Elissa continued to work on breakfast, making plans for the day and other small talk. When she was finished she brought over two plates, and as she leaned over to set one down in front of John he brought his hands to her waist and pulled her gently down into his lap.
She looked at him with amusement, and the sunlight caught at her auburn hair, making it glow with a stunning luminescence.
"Don't you want your breakfast?" she asked softly, arching an elegant eyebrow at him. This elicited a smile from John and in answer he kissed her firmly; she still held in one hand a crepe-filled plate, but the other came up and pressed gently against the back of his neck, keeping their lips together.
When she pulled away with a contented sigh she slipped lightly from his lap and crossed over to the other side of the table, setting her plate down and seating herself delicately opposite her husband. They began eating in a companionable silence when Elissa turned her head and saw the forgotten coffee, sitting neglected on the counter. She rose from the table with a rueful smile, crossed over to them and stopped dead, her eyes fixed on the window.
"John," she said, and the apprehension in her voice sobered him immediately, "there are three men coming up from the road . . . they have guns."
John got up from the table, his breakfast forgotten, and moved to stand by her. Elissa's fingers brushed across his arm as she turned to look worriedly up at him.
"It's all right."
"You're sure?"
"Yes," he said in a far-off and distant tone, "I know that man. Or I used to, anyway," he turned and moved out of the kitchen, drawing an old, battered firearm from the drawer of an endtable. "Go down to Michael's place, Elissa; he's a good man, and he'll take care of you if something happens. I'll be there in half an hour."
"John—"
"Don't, Elissa. Go now." She closed her eyes and rushed forward to embrace him tightly, kissing him deeply.
"You had better be there, John Hall," she warned him fiercely, with a fine flash in her eye, and then was gone.
John watched her vanish into the house and then turned and took a seat in the comfortable couch facing the house's front door. He calmly withdrew the weapon's magazine and inspected it expertly before returning it and sliding a round into the chamber.
The doorbell rang and John rose, holding the heavy pistol behind his back as he swung the door wide open.
"Good morning, sir," greeted a young, dark-haired man, clearly the leader in his gold-trimmed dark blue naval uniform.
"Why are you here, Matt?" John asked wearily, though he knew, already, what his old acquaintance wanted.
"Can we come inside?"
"No. Speak your piece here and now. What do you want?
Matt Horner considered the older man, still recognizable by his deep grey eyes and slim, lean height. Matt had hoped to approach the subject more tactfully, but in light of the manner of his reception, he decided to cut to the chase. "He needs you, John. He's falling apart."
"He's been falling apart since Sarah died, Matt."
"She's not dead—"
"She's dead, Matt." John answered sharply, and then shook his head and waved his hand. "You weren't there; you wouldn't understand."
"Maybe not, but I've been with him these past years while you've been here on Umoja doing . . . whatever . . ."
John ignored the remark. "Did Jim send you?"
"Of course not, John, he's too proud to ask for help – but he needs it all the same."
"Seems like his little rebellion is going just fine without me."
"We're fighting for freedom, John—" Horner began, but John raised his hand to forestall him.
"Spare me the pitch, Matt, I've seen your posters."
"Fine, John. But Jim was your friend once, and he needs you. Are you really going to turn your back on him again?"
"I never turned my back on him—" John objected, but this time it was Matt who cut him off.
"Whatever. All I know is that you left when things were at their worst – maybe in your world that means something different." Their eyes met and it was John who first looked away.
"He's been going down a dark path ever since you left, John. I don't know what it was like during the Brood War, but if you thought it was bad then . . ." Matt's voice, softer now, trailed off. After a moment he reached into his uniform jacket and pulled out an old, battered photograph that he extended towards John. "Look," he continued after a moment, "I wanted to give this to you; I found it under your desk when we cleaned out your cabin." He shrugged. "I haven't had a chance to give it back to you until now."
John recognized the handwriting on the back as his own and reached gingerly out to take the photo. His breath caught when he turned it over; it was a picture of the three of them: John, Sarah, and Jim, looking young and happy as they posed in front of Jim's beat-up old Vulture. John was still in the brown fatigues of the Mar Sara militia, his honorary colonel's rank shining on the lapels; Jim was wearing his typical utilitarian clothes; and Sarah, her bright red hair stark against the white of her outfit, Sarah was in her Ghost armor, with her C10 canister rifle leant carelessly against the Vulture's body.
"God," he whispered after a moment, and looked up at Matt, "Can you believe I had forgotten what she looked like?" His hand came up to cover his mouth as he looked down at the photo. "Thank you, Matt," he said levelly, but the quaver of his voice betrayed the strictly-controlled emotion which threatened to break out.
"He needs you, John," Matt repeated quietly, "he still talks about you, and he misses you. You both went through some tough times together."
"Yes," John answered bleakly, his mind far away in the past, "we did."
"Please, John, if there's anyone he related to, anyone who understood him, it was you," Matt said softly, "will you help him?"
"Damn you," she had whispered softly, "God damn you to hell."
The memory of her words echoed in his ears like the clamor of a bell.
"You had better come back to me, John Hall."
The engines of the shuttle whined as they powered up, and John could hear the chatter between the pilot and co-pilot just forward in the cockpit as they readied their ship for flight.
"You all right?" Matt asked as John reached up to pull down the retention bars above his seat, slotting them home after a moment of fussing with the lock. John nodded, but it surprised him how nervous he was: he must have been in hundreds of shuttles but this one felt like his very first.
"I love you, and I always will. Just . . . just come back to me."
John closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the cushioned headrest. Matt was right: he had been selfish all those years ago – but was he making the same mistake all over again?
"I'm sorry about . . ." Matt ventured, but hesitated when he realized he did not know the woman's name.
"Elissa."
"Right."
"Me too," John replied quietly.
"We'll rendezvous with the Hyperion in a few days."
"Where?"
Matt's mouth quirked in a repressed smile. "Where else?" he replied, "Mar Sara."
UH