Page 3 of Desperate Measures

She was twenty, but she had the urge to throw a toddler-worthy tantrum. Her whole life was being upended because she bore the last name Nath. It wasn’t fair. No one knew her actual name, so why should she have to worry about her identity being discovered?

She had nobody she could truly blame either. It wasn’t her father’s fault, despite there being those among the Earthers who’d branded him a traitor. It wasn’t her sister Hope’s fault, though she’d clanned Kalquorians equally despised on their home world.

It most certainly wasn’t the handsome Kalquorian liaison’s fault. He’d delivered the bad news she and Aunt Ruth and Uncle George would be kept secluded from fellow Earthers running from the Galactic Council while it and the Kalquorian Empire had their spat. Liaison Betra was a really good-looking guy, worth a serious flirtation if Charity hadn’t felt so put-upon. If he hadn’t been the person to tell her she was to be isolated from everyone else.

“It’s a necessary precaution,” Betra soothed. “We’re under orders to keep you safe, since your fellow Earthers might be upset over the allegations my people and your father are supposedly holding the former leader of old Earth as a prisoner.”

“About that. Why didn’t you execute the old tyrant? Or let his former wives do so?” Or his would-be wife. It had been a fate Charity had nearly been damned to at the age of fifteen.

“Copeland died in the battle at Haven, despite the Galactic Council’s allegations,” Betra said. “The vid footage was faked.”

He’d think so. Betra hadn’t been on the battlecruiser running for his life during its final seconds, alongside Charity and the rest hauling Copeland to a Kalquorian spyship so the bastard could face real justice.

Justice that hadn’t come to pass, as far as Charity was concerned.

“Of course he died,” Uncle George said, his wide grin beaming in his trademark friendly fashion at Betra. “We drink a toast to it on the anniversary each year.”

“Sweetie, this is for the best.” Aunt Ruth was pleasant, but there was a warning in her soft brown eyes for Charity.

“We don’t want any Earthtiques who might be on board recognizing you. Borey Nath’s youngest needs to keep her presence quiet.” George was equally kind and just as insistent.

“No one knows I’m a Nath,” she protested. She’d used her aunt and uncle’s surname after moving in with them.

“I’m sorry, Matara.” Betra’s tone was unfailingly kind, but there was a steel beneath it that said he wouldn’t be swayed. “I have my orders. You can’t mix among the rest of the Earthers on this transport. Perhaps the matter will be different on Alpha Space Station.”

He took his leave soon afterward, having given them the tour of their quarters on board the transport…which were admittedly nice considering it had once been used to ferry troops who weren’t afforded many luxuries.

Charity flounced on the lounger in the sitting room. “All I can say is Hope better not think I’m staying isolated on the space station for any length of time. It’s bad enough to have to pull a disappearing act.”

“The station is Kalquorian. Few Earthers visit, I’m told. I’m sure you’ll be allowed to move about it freely,” her aunt said gently as she inspected the kitchenette. She brushed her dark hair, showing its first strands of gray, from her eyes as she examined the automatic cooker.

“Why shouldn’t you? After all, Clan Piras lives there, and they’re unpopular with their own people. We haven’t been called to a funeral yet, so it must be okay.” Uncle George grinned as he ogled the entertainment system a few feet away.

Charity hoped he was right. She was a firm believer in living for today. She’d learned the hard way tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed.

* * * *

Mymah, moon in Galactic Council Space

Former nun Cheryl Taupin began the meeting she’d called. “The orphanage continues to be beneath the notice of the Galactic Council, thank God. Unfortunately, we can’t continue to count on it.”

Her husband Nobek Besral glanced around the conference table at the four others who’d joined them: two human women and two fellow Nobeks. He concentrated on Ocri and Norev, next in line in the security hierarchy of the small defense force employed by Open Arms Orphanage. “No doubt the GC would leave this moon alone if it weren’t for our presence. But we’re needed here more than ever, especially now when it seems the ruling council has lost its collective senses.”

“They said they’d arrest any Kalquorians unaffiliated with the council who remain in GC space,” Cheryl needlessly reminded them.

“I don’t plan to budge unless the children leave too,” Ocri snarled. “They’ve been my responsibility for ten years. I’ve watched thousands grow and embark on successful lives thanks to our care. I refuse to walk away.”

“As do we all.” Besral offered a grim smile.

The Kalquorian men were impressive muscled beasts despite their heads full of gray hair and advanced years. Discounting Besral, none of the dozen remaining to guard the orphanage was a day under the age of one hundred ninety. Besral was one hundred sixty himself. He wasn’t old, but he was well into middle age for a Kalquorian.

Their official function was to guard the orphans of Armageddon, as the parentless children who’d survived in the wake of the Earth-Kalquorian War were often referred to. The Nobeks would have long retired if they’d remained in the empire’s fleet or ground troops.

They typically had little to do as far as actually protecting the mere five hundred children left from the original thousands who’d sought refuge after losing their families and world. The space belonging to the Galactic Council of Planets had historically been as safe a haven as could be found in the galaxy. Besral’s men were more apt to teach math, science, meditation, or physical exercise classes than challenge unknown crafts veering too close to the moon facility.

Still, their mandate was to keep the children safe above all else. They’d become de facto father figures for those who hadn’t been adopted or attained adulthood yet. When the Galactic Council had ordered all Kalquorians out of its space subsequent to dubious revelations of wrongdoing, those who’d made the orphanage their lives had been besieged by demands from their charges to stay. When days, then weeks slipped by and no one enforced the eviction, the atmosphere of grief and fear had lessened.

The orphanage’s first headmistress had tearfully left when her clan had been assigned elsewhere by their military supervisors. Cheryl had successfully headed the orphanage for the past three years. When trouble erupted between the Galactic Council and the Kalquorian Empire but no one demanded the Kalquorians at Open Arms leave, she’d agreed with Besral their being overlooked would be brief. Sooner or later, the GC would remember its small orphanage colony and those who staffed it.

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