Slave Mind

by Rob Dearsley

A glance through the Folly’s cupola showed Dannage deckhands and officers stumbling for cover, their heads covered by rebreather masks. Ahead of them, the emergency shutter doors were closing over the wide mouth of the bay.

  Luc jumped into the pilot’s chair and urged the Folly through the narrowing gap and out into space. Dannage had a moment to look out over Topaz II and its single moon before the com chirped.

  Dannage slumped down into a chair and hit the com control.

  “Reclaimer to Folly. Cut power and turn the ship over to us in the next ten seconds or I will vaporise you.” The Reclaimer’s captain sounded royally pissed. Just the way Dannage needed him.

  Dannage muted the com. “Luc, how long to the slipway?”

  “More than ten seconds,” Luc replied.

  Dannage unmuted the com. “Come and get me.” Then he cut the link. He could imagine the Reclaimer’s captain fuming.

  “Cap’n, your plan to make them chase us only works if we can get away.” Tracer fire from the Reclaimer's close-in guns punctuated Luc’s words.

  Thankfully, they were hovering just outside of effective range for the close-in guns, but still too close for the main rail guns to get solid firing solutions. Of course, the moment they moved they’d be within the engagement envelope of one set of guns or the other.

  “Luc, get us out of here. Keep evasive.”

  Dannage moved to the scanner console. The Folly followed an erratic course toward the slipway. Behind them, the Reclaimer was twisting on her axis. But for some reason, not firing.

  Of course. The EMP must have damaged the guns in that section.

  “Luc, come around starboard and run hard for Slipway Three. We need to stay ahead of their turn.”

  The com-link chirped back to life. “Captain Dannage, don’t think I won’t hesitate to kill you. For what you’ve done to my ship, I’ll hunt you down and – one way or the other – make you pay.”

  “Good to hear.” Dannage let his own frustrations fill his voice. “Meet me at Pyrite, and bring friends. You’ll need them.”

  Then, the Folly was onto the highway and the com-link cut off.

  Dannage blew out his breath. That had been a close one. They were safe on the highway, for now. Yet, thoughts of what they might find at Pyrite troubled him. Were the Terrans already there, waiting for them?

  Seventeen

  - SDF Jean-Luke, on-route to Pyrite -

  Arland looked up from the flex-screen as the door hushed open and Hale was escorted in by a pair of guards.

  “How did it go?” Arland asked, setting the flex aside.

  “Lots of questions about my ship-link and the Terran military. Did you find anything out about Pyrite?” Hale slumped down onto the couch opposite Arland.

  “Plenty.” Arland and Simon had been researching since Hale had been taken. Vaughn sat to one side, still holding the wetware chip.

  “There’s only one habitable world with an old Garrison in orbit.” She passed the flex to Hale. “Pyrite III. It was never colonised. It’s got a perpendicular rotation axis. Planets like that are a pain to colonise, no one wants to spend half a year in darkness. But the outer planets and moons are – or were – high in rare elements. So, the Systems’ Government built a Garrison to manage all the outer mining operations.”

  “The mining dried up twelve years ago,” Simon interrupted.

  “So, why keep the Garrison in orbit?” Hale asked.

  Simon answered, “Station like that would have been fabricated in situ. It’s cheaper to leave it than to dismantle it.”

  Something that had been nagging at the back of Arland’s mind pushed into the front of her thoughts. “Twelve years? That’s not long before the Curiosity’s message would have arrived.”

  “No,” Simon conceded. “You think the Spooks got the mines closed down so they could use the system?”

  “Sounds like more trouble than it would be worth,” Arland said. “But, if the system had been recently abandoned then it would be the perfect opportunity.”

  “If they’ve set up on the Garrison, then what should we expect?” Hale scanned through the documents on the flex faster than Arland could follow.

  Arland gestured toward the flex. “We’ve got plans for the default Garrison layout, but nothing specific about this one. In any case, we have no idea what modifications the Spooks might have made since.”

  The trio leaned back on couches, studying the flex. Nothing jumped out at Arland, but then she didn’t really expect it to.

  “There’s not much more we can do without the captain, or at least Commander Harris’s involvement.” Simon stretched his arms over his head. “We should get some shut-eye.”

  Vaughn approached them, still turning the wetware chip over in his hands. He dropped it on the table. “This is my design.”

  Arland raised her eyebrows, gesturing for him to continue.

  “The bioneural interface is my design. This is based on my research.”

  Arland jumped up. “This is a couple of cells?” She shook the chip.

  Vaughn’s eyes dropped. “I never meant for any of this. I’m sorry.”

  Arland had never seen him so deflated.

  “We’re all tired,” Hale said, stepping between them. “Maybe we should call it a night?”

  Arland stepped back. “Yeah. Meet at oh-seven-hundred hours.”

  The others agreed, and she headed out.

  After the more muted lighting of the conference room, the glaring brightness of the corridor stabbed into Arland’s eyes, jolting her fully awake again.

  A group of Marines jogged past in tight formation, their footsteps in perfect unison. The man at the back dropped out of sync, turning toward Arland.

  “Hey, you’re Shauna Arland, aren’t you?” His grin was unmistakable. Arland had seen it, or something like it for months after her trial. That mix of contempt and arrogance. He was in the SDF, Junior Lieutenant by his rank insignia, while she was left out in the cold.

  Arland bit back several choice epithets. “That’s me.” She kept her head down and kept walking.

  “What are you doing?” He stepped into her path, blocking her. “You’ve got us gallivanting off on some wild goose chase.”

  “We’re along for the ride. It’s the captain’s choice.” Arland regretted the words as soon as they’d left her lips.

  The Marine opened his mouth to say something more, but a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

  “Sorry about that, ma’am. Hopkins here doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.” The other Marine had ‘Capt. Grayson’ embroidered on his sleeve. He nodded to Arland and the pair hurried off to catch up with the rest of the group.

  ◊◊

  The last couple of days had dragged as Arland and the others had prepped for what was to come. Harris had come by a couple of times to check on them. He’d seemed tense and distracted, always leaving before she could ask him about it.

  Tomorrow, the Jean-Luke would arrive in Pyrite. She’d been staring at the wall in her small berth for the last hour or so, trying to rest. Thoughts of what they might find when they got to Pyrite swirled through her mind. It was like trying to get to sleep on Christmas Eve as a child, so excited for what tomorrow would bring. The Binaries were synonymous with the Spooks, but no one really knew who or what they were. Was it just a group of people, a single leader, or even some sort of computer system? Her thoughts flashed back to the wetware servers she’d seen on Mica Vb. The images sent shivers down her spine. It was as though there was someone in the room with her. That childlike fear of something under the bed, or just behind her head, out of view. The rational part of her mind knew she was alone, and all she had to do was turn over to prove it. The rational part of her mind was never quite so persuasive in the middle of the night, slumped between waking and sleeping. That liminal state where reality might become a dream and dreams just might be real.

  With a two-tone chime, the ship-wide com sprang to life. “All crew prepare for entry to Pyrite
System in T-minus thirty minutes. All hands to battle stations.”

  Arland bolted upright and was up and out of bed before the fog of sleep had fully lifted. There was a small sink in the corner of the room, the water blessedly cold against her face.

  According to the clock over her bed, it was 06.46, but she suspected the others would be there.

  Arland hurried down the Jean-Luke’s main crew-way. All around her, offices and enlisted crew scurried to their combat stations.

  In the observation lounge, Simon was armoured up the same as Arland, while Hale wore the poorly fitting flight suit she’d been wearing since Micha Vb.

  Alongside her friends, Harris stood at firm attention, his uniform crisp and straight as ever. “Good of you to join us, Miss Arland.”

  Arland ignored the jibe. “What’s the plan, once we slip into the system?”

  Harris’s mouth twisted into a tight smile of irritation. “Once we get a clearer picture of the state of the system and the Garrison, we’ll be in a better position to proceed. But I’ve got security and engineering teams ready to go over and secure the station.”

  Arland joined the others by the big windows. “We should be on that team.”

  “Not a chance,” Harris said. “You can monitor from here. As far as we know, this is an SDF station, so SDF crews will be the first over. Once it’s secure, then you can go.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the ship-wide. “Transit to Pyrite in T-minus one minute.”

  They all turned to watch as the blue of the highway peeled back, breaking apart like tissue paper, to reveal the Pyrite System. Arland let out a low whistle. She’d seen mining operations before, but this was something else. Crescent shells and broken fragments were all that was left of the fifteen moons shared by the outer two gas giants. The nearer of the two planets, a swirling mottle of green and blue, had the remnants of rings still spinning around its equator.

  As the Jean-Luke moved counter-orbital, the inner, rocky planets came into view. Next, to the second planet, the solar panels stretching out from the Garrison glinted.

  Excitement thrilled through Arland. They were here. This had to be the Spook’s main base of operations. All the answers she longed for were on that tiny station. Her absolution. The station grew in their view. She knew it was over two kilometres long, but right now she could cover the main body with her little finger.

  It continued to grow for a few minutes more before disappearing from view as the Jean-Luke took up station alongside.

  “So,” Arland said, so wound up she could hardly breathe.

  Harris’s head snapped around to face her, there was an odd, disjointed expression on his face. “Of course.” He led them to a console and, with a couple of commands, brought up camera feeds from the team going over.

  The six men were already sat in the back of a troop transport.

  “Alright,” the squad leader, Commander Fontwell, said. “Hard seals on your suits. We assume the station’s been left in vacuum. Station is presumed hostile, so Marines will lead.”

  The men paired up to check each other’s suits. When they were done, Fontwell turned to the rear hatch.

  “Signal and systems check. Jean-Luke, do you see us?”

  Beside Arland, Harris tapped a control. “We read you, both audio and video five-by-five.”

  “Copy sir.” Fontwell tapped the controls and the hatch cycled open, revealing the scarred, pitted, surface of the Garrison’s outer airlock. Off to the right of the door was the manual release lever. Fontwell reached out and pulled it.

  Nothing happened.

  One of the techs pushed past Fontwell to kneel in front of the door. His camera feed showed a small access panel open, trailing wires connected the circuitry to a small computer.

  “Nothing,” the tech announced. “We’re going to have to manually crank this one.”

  The other tech clamped a magnetic door jack into place. His camera feed bobbed as he cranked the doors.

  On Fontwell’s feed, the outer doors opened into darkness. Shafts of light from the other men’s armour started to pierce the gloom, picking out ranks of unused space suits hanging from the far wall. At Fontwell’s command, a pair of Marines in their matte-black armour moved through the door into the station.

  “No gravity. Activating mag-boots.” The first man reached down to tap a control on his thigh. His boots clamped down on the deck. Dust that had lain undisturbed for nearly ten years drifted aside.

  The lead Marine’s camera panned back and forth, checking the room. The name-tag on his feed read Ensign Hopkins.

  Something tugged at the back of Arland’s mind. Frowning, she tried to pry it loose, but whatever it had been fled from the light of her attention.

  “Clear,” Hopkins called.

  The rest of the Marines escorted the techs into the room and the process of cracking the door was repeated.

  Fontwell led them into the station proper. It was dark and cold. Frost gathered around a nearby ventilation shaft, glittering in the Marine’s lights.

  One of the techs pulled a wall panel open and hooked up his computer, the same way he had on the outer door.

  The tech’s computer dipped out of the view of his camera feed. “Nothing, again. This place is properly dead.”

  “Think you can power it back up?” Fontwell asked.

  “Maybe, we’ll have to see what state the core’s in.”

  The tech unplugged his computer and they moved on again.

  After half an hour more of the Marines moving through the dead Garrison, they reached the core chamber. The power core was housed on one end of the station to permit ejection in an emergency, and the shuttle had docked near the power room.

  The two techs knelt before the spherical power core while the Marines fanned out around the room. It was as dark and empty as the rest of the station.

  “Bad news, sir.” The tech’s stood up, disconnecting their equipment. “The quantum matrix has been removed. There’s no way we can restart the core.”

  “Understood.” Fontwell shifted to addressing Harris, “Do you want us to check the rest of the station, Commander?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Harris replied before turning to Arland. “Nothing. Looks like your little jaunt is over. Now we can get back to the proper work.”

  Arland couldn’t look away from the screen. She’d been so sure there would be something there. All the evidence had pointed toward it. There had to be something. It couldn’t have been all for nothing.

  Hale was the one to speak, “What about the rest of the station? The Spooks might have set up a cold zone like on Micha?”

  “You’re wasting everyone’s time,” Harris said.

  “Let us go over in a shuttle and we’ll check it ourselves.” Arland hated the pleading in her voice.

  Harris glanced between them and the screen, his eyes going distant. “Fine,” he said finally. “We’ll go over.” He turned back to the screens. “We’re sending a second team over. Fall back to the airlock.”

  “Copy, sir,” Fontwell replied.

  Harris clicked the link off and turned toward the door.

  “I’ll monitor from here,” Vaughn said.

  Arland smiled. They were going over. They’d find something, she was sure of it. The four of them fell in behind Harris as they started toward the flight deck.

  A pair of the squat troop transports sat in the Jean-Luke’s flight deck. Arland glanced between the two, frowning. The other shuttle had come back already?

  Grayson and his squad of Marines filtered in, the chitinous black of their hard-shell glistening in the lights.

  “Left-hand shuttle’s ready.” Harris waved them over. “I’ll be coming over with you to take charge of the operation.”

  Simon and Hale started strapping themselves into the waiting shuttle’s troop seats.

  Arland’s mother walked in and looked up in surprise. “Commander Harris?”

  Hale let out a cry of pa
in and doubled forward, hands clutching at her head.

  Stars, Arland rushed to Hale’s side. “Terrans?”

  Harris grabbed her by the hair. Pain ripped across Arland’s scalp, as he pulled her back to him and twisted her arm up her back.

  Simon groped his half-done-up harness. But before he could get free, Harris had a gun out. The gun let out the distinctive puff of the Spook stun guns and Simon slumped against the restraints.

  “Arland!” Vaughn rushed in. “Harris isn’t telling us every… oh.”

  Arland’s mother marched forward, fury radiating from every step. “What in all the starry heavens do you think you’re doing?” Grayson’s Marines had their weapons out and pointed, but looked uncertain.

  “This point is the fulcrum around which the fate of humanity will turn.”

  The shock, like ice shooting through Arland, had nothing to do with the still warm gun barrel pressed into her neck.

  Her interactions with Harris flitted through Arland’s mind. The distant looks, the interest in Hale, heck even that mess on the hospital ship. It was obvious. She should have seen it.

  Harris was a Spook.

  Regaining her breath, Arland said, “How do you think you can get away with this?”

  “The good captain would do anything to keep you safe.” She could almost hear the smarmy smile on his face.

  “Damn straight.” Her mother’s eyes held steel. “Grayson, take the shot.”

  “Can’t, ma’am.” Grayson sidestepped, trying to get Arland out of the line of fire. Harris mirrored the Marine, moving toward the control for the shuttle’s ramp.

  Harris reached out with his gun hand to strike the control console. With a hiss of hydraulics, the ramp rose.

  Arland twisted free, leaving a chunk of hair behind. Momentarily blinded by pain, she stumbled across the crew compartment. Grayson’s gun barked, but Harris was already moving, lightning quick. Grayson’s ship-safe round shattered against the compartment’s overhead.

  Arland pushed off the bulkhead, lunging for Harris. He slid aside at the last minute, the same slippery fighting style favoured by the Spooks. On instinct, she threw up her arms against an attack. The ballistic gel in her armour’s sleeve hardened under the force of Harris’s blow.