“Negative, ma’am.” The ComsRate paused. “This com upload is ship to ship through the transponder links, not through our normal coms at all.”
Felicity bit off her automatic response. James Heron had several times said he suspected the ships were a lot more sentient than they realised. If that was so, then it must be possible the ships ‘talked’ among themselves. Ten minutes later she ordered, “Get me the Admiral. Samland’s gone too far this time. Now we’ve got her.”
Admiral Le Jeune glared at her tablet for a moment longer. “Damn, I knew that Senator Samland was up to something.” She pointed at the image on the data screen. “That’s a Charonian destroyer. They’re after the Lagan. Why her, of all the patrol ships?” A sudden thought hit her. “Why wasn’t I told Heron had made contact earlier?” She turned to her Flag Lieutenant. “Get me the C-in-C.”
The Flag Lieutenant gave instructions to the ComsRates before he replied. “Flag Captain Greenacre took Commander Heron’s link call, ma’am. Shall I contact him?”
The Admiral’s frown deepened. “Get me the record of that link-up. No, don’t contact him yet. I want to see what was said first.”
“C-in-C on link for you, ma’am.”
“On my privacy screen please.” When she could see the C-in-C in the holo-image, she wasted no words. “Morning, sir, we have a problem.” Quickly she explained what happened, including her suspicions regarding the Flag Captain. “I’ve just been informed that the record of that link and his conversation with Heron has been erased. I’m sending Security to arrest Captain Greenacre immediately. Once I get hold of the Lagan, I’ll download her records of this occurrence and send them on.”
“Do that. I have the Senate Chairman all over the Board demanding we send the Lagan back to, in his words, rescue Senator Samland and make amends for Heron’s attack on her security detail.” He emitted a derisive snort to punctuate his emphasis on the word rescue. “What the buffoon doesn’t know, and I’m not about to tell him yet, is that the Lagan has sent a full set of these records, live and unaltered, to Security, apparently on Heron’s orders.”
“Hell’s teeth. It just gets worse. I’ve ordered Lieutenant Banks to rendezvous with an escort of destroyers and the Fifth Cruiser squadron. They’ll have her under their wing in an hour if Banks follows instructions. I warned Heron to have him exchanged, but he felt we should give the man another opportunity.”
“Nothing we can do about that now. Something has definitely happened to Heron. Lagan reports that she was recording what he was hearing and seeing, and then it became garbled before it shut down completely, but she’s adamant he isn’t dead, just blocked from contact.” The CinC scratched his chin. “That sounds ominous.”
Admiral Le Jeune frowned and pursed her lips in thought. “Damned if I know how that whole thing works. Why is Lagan telling us this?”
“Not us, one individual attached to Security. She’s obeying the last command she received from Heron.” The C-in-C grimaced. “I don’t know how it works either. All I can say is that the ship contacted Security, downloaded the encrypted data, and insisted it be passed to Admiral Stotesbury. He’s got his people on it as we speak. They had to get Lieutenant Commander O’Connor in to talk to the Lagan so she would give them the key to the encryption.” He smiled and passed a hand over his eyes. “Now I’ve got a berserk Irishman raging in that incoherent accent of his that he’ll personally take apart every spailpín of the pirates and the senate, and anyone else, with his own bare hands if they’ve harmed a single hair of Heron’s head. Not to mention James Heron himself is out for blood, and that legal eagle relative of his with the odd name—L’Estrange, the Chief Justice—is already lining up the writs.”
He sighed with weariness. “I’ll deal with the politics and the legals. You get that patrol ship back and impound it. No one goes aboard her unless you personally authorise it. I’ll get a security team on their way to you with the folks from the AI section so they can go through her memories. Oh, and I’ll send O’Connor with them. You can always let him loose to wreak his own special form of punishment if all else fails!”
“The bastards haven’t given us much of a chance, sir.” The Coxswain surveyed the gig’s wrecked controls. “I just hope they haven’t sabotaged the autopilot as well.”
Strapped into his seat, but at least now free of the restraints that secured his arms and legs while his captors transported him to the gig, Harry groped at the helmet that encased his head. “This thing interferes with my cyberlink, so I cannot check or intervene.” He dropped his hands to the armrests. “We’ll have to hope they haven’t. Though I suspect Madam Senator is the type who hopes we make a safe landing and assume all is well, and then we die a slow miserable death from starvation.” He glanced at the figure slumped in the pilot’s seat next to the Coxswain. “Is Dorfling alright? Where is Duval?”
“They killed Duval when he went after the bastard that nailed you with that stunner, sir.” Jack Proctor looked at the screen and then back to Harry. “We’ll try to get that thing off you as soon as we’re down. Mike will be okay if we can give him a bit of time to recuperate—it took four guys and a stunner to stop him. I think the only reason he didn’t get shot like Tony was because they couldn’t lock a clear target on him.”
“One thing at a time I suppose.” Harry felt in the fob pocket of his trousers. “Ha! Got you, milady.” He pulled the recorder free, still attached to the chain of his fob watch. “They didn’t find this recorder in my pocket, and it is still functioning. Excellent, hopefully the Lagan is in contact with it.”
Jack Proctor grinned. “If she is, they’ll all get one hell of a shock when that gets to Security.” He hesitated. “If Lagan is still monitoring that, perhaps they’ll come back for us.”
“Possible, but we should not count on it. The transmission is dependent on a connection to a ship and which hyper relays it uses, and how many relays the data must pass through before it can be traced to here.” Harry winced as the gig shuddered. “I think we are about to discover whether the autopilot is capable of getting us to the surface in one piece.”
Ferghal O’Connor paced like a caged lion. He had few illusions concerning the gentry, or what passed for them in this day and age, and now he had even less. As far as he could see, politicians of all stamps could not be trusted. “Damn the woman. Senator she calls herself? Traitor! Filthy murderer is all she is! Her money and her title give her no license.”
“Commander O’Connor, calm down please. You’re making it difficult to think here,” said Vice-Admiral Petrocova, though she could understand his agitation. She felt it too, but kept it under control. “I’d suggest you go and work out some of your anger in the recreation compartment—but in your present mood you’re likely to destroy even our best punching bags.” She stood. “We’re traveling at hyper speed and will reach the rendezvous on schedule. What I need from you now—and I should think Harry does as well—is for you to use that link of yours to contact the Lagan. I want everything Harry’s sending her downloaded and stored securely, and I want a live feed if she’s still got any contact at all.”
Ferghal stopped in his tracks, his hands clasping and unclasping as he fought down his rage. He should have thought of this himself. Could he find Lagan through the data uploads? Why not? He had to try. “Aye, aye, ma’am.” He took several deep breaths before he turned to face her. “I’ve not the same degree of link with the AIs that Harry—Commander Heron—has, but I’ll do me best, may the saints help me.” He crossed himself, his lips moving in a barely audible prayer. “Holy Mary, Mother o’ God, be with me now, help me an’ watch o’er Harry that we may restore him to our family.”
The Admiral watched this without comment, then indicated a seat at her desk. “Sit there. Now, what do you need? I’ll get some food and refreshment sent in.” She touched her link. “Flags, you can come in now, and send in my SU. I want to order in some refreshments.”
“I’ll not need m
uch, ma’am, just some time to concentrate while I make the link.” Despite himself, Ferghal laughed. “This AI is a little snobbish.”
Valerie Petrocova smiled. “I’m sure you can deal with that.” She paused as the door slid aside. “Right, Flags and I will leave you to it.” She indicated seats at the far end of the table. “We can sit over here, Ashley. We won’t disturb Commander O’Connor if we keep it down.” She turned as the steward joined them. “Bring Commander O’Connor his favourite non-alcoholic drink and whatever his favourite sandwich is. I’ll have the same as usual. You, Flags?”
Ferghal tuned out the voices at the other end of the table and focussed on his link. “Good evening, Hermes, can we work together to find the Lagan?”
“Good evening, Commander.” The AI was using a voice in the frequency range that was difficult to identify as either masculine or feminine. “I was not aware the Lagan was missing.”
“I meant can I connect to her through you.”
“I see no reason why not, Commander.” There was a slight hesitation. “I must affirm that I cannot possibly be a snob. A snob is a person who believes they are superior to any person they believe is of a lower social status to themselves, and since I am a servant of my crew, I cannot consider myself superior—except, of course, in my data processing and function management.”
Despite himself, Ferghal laughed, causing the Admiral to glance in his direction, her eyebrow raised. “I am corrected then, Hermes. Thank you. I apologise.” He tried to think of a way to ask the next question, aware the ship was listening to his thoughts. “I need to speak directly to the Lagan. Can you guide me in this?”
“I understand, Commander.” The ship sounded less defensive and friendlier. “It is easier if you simply think about whatever you need to know. Shall I attempt to contact the Lagan now? She will require some means of identification from you.”
“Yes, please do so.” Ferghal smiled. “You may tell her that the other ancient mariner, the lab rat who shared Harry’s childhood, needs information about Harry’s situation.”
“I shall do so, Commander.”
“Please call me Ferghal. Since you are privy to everything in my head, there is little point to formality, Hermes.” He was aware of the steward placing a plate and a tall glass at his side.
Before he could utter his thanks, the steward said, “A pleasure, sir. I hope the cold beef is as you like it. I have applied mustard and pickled gherkin according to your taste.”
Surprised, Ferghal chuckled. “Thanks.”
“No thanks needed, Commander. It was a simple matter to obtain your favourite filling. I hope I have it right.”
“I’m sure it will be delicious. Thank you.” Ferghal gripped the glass and swigged, surprised that it was his favourite fruit mix—and absolutely perfect.
“I am in contact with the Lagan now, Ferghal.”
“Grand, can she hear me? Please make a record of our conversation.”
“I can hear you, Ferghal.” The voice was feminine, soft, and with a slight lilt to it that could only be Harry’s influence, Ferghal thought. “I will log this as well.”
“Are you being pursued, Lagan?”
“I am now in company of a cruiser squadron and their escorts, under orders from Admiral Le Jeune.”
“Good. Do you know where Harry might be?”
“He is not on the Voyager. He had a second recorder, and I was receiving its data until three days ago. From the manner the signal was lost, it suggests he was removed from the Voyager and placed somewhere without a hyperlink transmitter since it relies on the ship’s systems for transmission and reception.”
“Then you cannot trace his link either?”
“I lost contact with his link a few minutes after he was immobilised. The contact was broken by an interference screen.”
“Then how do you know he left the Voyager?”
“The recorder link was strong at first, but then it faded, as would happen if it were moving away from the hyperlink transmitter.”
“Were they still in the same system when that happened?”
“Negative, Ferghal. The Voyager made three transits after we left the system, and I am unable to say where they were when I lost contact, but I can affirm that contact with the recorder was broken after the second transit.”
“Each time a ship transits it triggers a signal from the hyperspace beacons, Ferghal,” Hermes explained in answer to the question forming in his thoughts. “Every ship is aware of these, though we usually ignore them unless told otherwise.”
“Thank you, Hermes.” Ferghal assembled his thoughts. “I think I understand. Lagan, I will need you to download all the information you have to Hermes so that Admiral Petrocova can see it for herself.”
“Should I place it in a special file that only you or the Admiral may read?”
Ferghal hesitated. “Yes, I think that will be best.” He had a second idea. “Lagan, make sure no one can access this information, alter it or delete it from your memory. We may need to examine the original data at some point, if my experience with legal teams is anything to go by. Oh, and I’d prefer that you not tell anyone I’ve made contact.”
Chapter 12
Marooned
_________________________
The gig’s descent was a little unsteady, but the autopilot seemed to be coping. The occupants held their breath as the craft slowed then levelled, changed direction, dipped sharply and changed direction again. The landscape visible through the viewscreens was harsh: dry plains with massive mesa-type upthrusts of weathered rock with very little vegetation anywhere in sight.
“Looks like the Painted Desert in the Americas,” remarked Jack Proctor. “But hotter, according to this readout.”
“And drier,” commented Mike Dorfling, now conscious. “Reminds me of the place they call Death Valley in California.”
“Do we have any indication of where the gig is taking us?” Harry could see very little through the eye slits in the helmet, and what he could see wasn’t encouraging. The tall stony buttes were surrounded by steep sloping banks that lent a desolate appearance to the arid landscape.
“At the present rate of descent, sir, it looks like we could be landing somewhere near that feature on the horizon.”
Harry strained to see what the Coxswain was indicating. “Do you mean that line of broken ground?”
“That’s the one, sir. Wonder why they chose it.”
“Let’s hope it was a random choice. I’ve a feeling anything chosen for a reason would be a malicious one intended to make us suffer.” From the look the others gave him, Harry regretted speaking his thoughts. He changed the subject. “From what the Senator said, this place will at least support life, but my concern is the degree of difficulty we’ll have finding nourishment to sustain us.”
“I’m with you there, sir,” said Jack Proctor. The gig dipped sharply and banked a turn as it slowed in its descent. “Feels like we’ve arrived,” said Jack. “Brace yourselves for a rough landing, boys. This one will rattle your teeth out.” Jack’s laughter rang out, and the others couldn’t decide whether he was joking or serious, so they hunched into their seats and hoped for the best.
Harry gripped the armrests of his chair, suddenly very conscious of how helpless he was and how much he had come to take for granted his constant connection to the ship’s AI and even the gig’s less sophisticated system.
As the ground rushed toward them, they held their collective breath, bracing for the worst, but the little ship steadied, and the autopilot brought her down gently on a large platform of rock.
“Well, that was better than I expected,” Jack said, throwing off his harness and shooting them a grin as he climbed out of the pilot’s seat. “Now let’s see if we can get you out of that bucket helmet, Mr. Vader, sir.”
“Luke, I am your father,” Mike Dorfling intoned, and Harry was utterly befuddled when his companions released their tension with a lou
d guffaw of laughter.
Jack Proctor explained. “It’s from an old science fiction movie called Star Wars, sir, from the 1970s. You look like Darth Vader in that thing, but it’s actually kind of cool!”
“No, it is not cool,” snapped Harry, not enjoying being the butt of a joke, even a good-natured one. “It’s infernally hot in this helmet, and I would be much obliged if you fellows stopped chuckling and freed me of this contraption!”
“Yes sir, we’ll be on it right away, sir,” said Jack. “Sorry, just trying to make light of the situation.”
Before Harry could reply, the gig announced, “Warning. Self destruction sequence has begun. Self destruction will occur in ten minutes.” A warning light began to flash over the boarding door. “Please exit immediately. All passengers must be a minimum of 500 metres from this vessel when self destruction occurs.”
“Bastards,” Mike snapped. “They don’t mean us to use the gig or anything in it to save ourselves.”
“So it seems.” Harry thought quickly and started rummaging through the emergency locker. “Grab the survival dome pack, Mr. Dorfling. Coxswain, grab the ration packs.” He heaved a small replicator and distillation unit from their positions. “Come on, lads, we’ve very little time. Let’s go! Jack, choose a direction that may lead us to some shelter. I cannot see well enough to lead in this bucket helmet as you called it.”
Jack stifled a chuckle at Harry’s grousing and said, “This way then, sir. There’s an outcrop in this direction that may shield us a little if we’re still too close to the gig when it goes kaboom. Got that pack, Mike? Let’s go then.” He gripped Harry’s elbow. “Watch your footing, sir. Bloody hell, it’s hot here.”
The trio half ran, half scrambled through what proved to be a mix of loose shale and sand, and low-growing vegetation of some sort that was tough and wiry, and would’ve torn their shins to ribbons had they not been wearing sturdy boots. The heat hammered down from the overhead suns, and struck upward from the ground beneath their feet as they struggled to get beyond the likely blast range of the gig explosion. It was hard going with their burdens on the uneven terrain, and they were still within the 500-metre zone when they reached the outcrop. The land dipped sharply on the other side of the rock upthrust, and there was a depression and shallow cave behind it.
Harry Heron: Hope Transcends Page 11