The Lost Command (Lost Starship Series Book 2)

by Heppner, Vaughn

  Since that time, refinements in the Methuselah Treatments had broadened in scope. More people scraped together the vast sums of wealth needed to pay for the drugs and medical procedures. Octavian had been one of the first recipients of the treatment in the early days before the plant, making him one of the oldest or possibly the oldest person alive.

  The man was nearly three hundred years old.

  The Methuselah People had certain similarities with each other. Extreme age fossilized key personality traits. In Octavian’s case, it was bitter ruthlessness. Great age also brought about extreme caution. The elder Nerva protected himself with prejudice, having one of the best security details in existence. The man seldom took unnecessary risks, having long ago decided to model his operations on spiders. He sat in his web, only approaching those carefully trapped by his threads. Now, the captain thought he could get to Octavian? It was preposterous.

  “Listen to me,” Maddox said. “Octavian will have every advantage but one. I will exploit that weakness and free Meta.”

  “What could you possibly have over him, sir?” Riker asked.

  “You won’t like it,” Maddox said.

  “I don’t even know what it is, and I already don’t like it, but I must admit I’m curious.”

  “Right,” Maddox said. “Octavian wants to live more than we do.”

  A cold feeling stabbed through Riker. “You’re wrong, sir. I very much want to live.”

  “I’m speaking of ratios,” Maddox said. “Octavian is one of the Methuselah People. Their guiding star is a marked desire for longevity. That is the fulcrum we’ll use to lever Meta’s freedom.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Maddox studied the stars. They were bright outside the canopy. “I’m going to ask you to do something difficult, Sergeant. I want you to trust me without knowing all the details.”

  “Can you be more specific?” Riker asked.

  “I need your help. I need you with me on this one, but you can’t ask too many questions.”

  “You want me to head straight into the lion’s den, and you don’t want to tell me your plan?”

  Maddox appeared troubled and remained quiet for a time. Finally, he asked, “Do you know where that phrase originated?”

  “What phrase?”

  “Into the lion’s den,” Maddox said.

  “No, sir, I have no idea. Why does it matter?”

  “It doesn’t matter, strictly speaking. I was simply curious.” Maddox inhaled, saying, “Information is everything. The lion’s den. Have you ever heard of a man named Daniel?”

  “I’m not sure. Daniel who?”

  “He wrote the ancient Book of Daniel.”

  Riker shook his head.

  “It’s in the Bible,” Maddox said.

  “Oh. No, sir, I would have no idea. I’ve never read the Bible.”

  “It’s a curious tome,” Maddox said. “In any case, Daniel was an old man at the time of the situation. His crime was that he prayed to God several times a day.”

  “Why would that be a crime?” Riker asked.

  “Ah. Therein lies the tale. Certain nobles of the Persian Court hated old Daniel. Yet they couldn’t find any corruption in him. So, they devised a law that would entrap the pious man. Daniel was a Jewish advisor to the Persian king, you understand, and the nobles resented his power. The court nobles persuaded the king to pass a decree that people could only pray to him. Once Daniel learned of the law, he refused to comply. The nobles informed the king and forced him to carry through his decree. They did it by telling the king no one would respect him if he didn’t stand by his laws.”

  “Daniel died?” Riker asked, “Just as we’re going to die? The nobles’ hatred was like a den of lions?”

  “On the contrary,” Maddox said. “Daniel told the king not to worry. God could protect him. The guards lowered Daniel into the underground den of lions. Then they rolled a rock over the hole, sealing the entrance. The king went home and tossed all night, unable to sleep. In the morning, he raced to the den of lions and called out. Daniel answered him. He told the king that God had sent an angel to keep the lions’ mouths shut all night.”

  As Riker piloted the flitter, he glanced at Maddox several times. That was it? “What angel is going to keep Octavian’s men from shooting us, sir?”

  “Afterward,” Maddox said, as if he hadn’t heard the question, “the king confronted the nobles who had urged him into making such a decree. The king had the offending nobles tossed into the lions’ den. Oh, and he struck down the law.”

  “What happened to the nobles?”

  “The lions ate the lot of them.”

  Riker mulled that over, finally saying, “You do realize we don’t have an angel on our side, sir? It seems to me we’re more like the nobles than Daniel.”

  “Maybe in our version of the story we’re going into the lions’ den in order to rescue the angel,” Maddox said.

  “Are you talking about Meta, sir?”

  “Indeed,” Maddox said.

  “I’ve never seen an angel that can hit as hard as her, sir.”

  “No,” Maddox said. “The point…” The captain stared up at the stars.

  The point, Riker realized, was that sometimes a man had to live or die according to his convictions. The sergeant appreciated that. This Daniel could have belonged to the Star Watch. He hadn’t deserted his post under pressure, but had remained faithful to his charge.

  What should I do? One of the old team is in danger, and we’re the ones who have to go in and rescue her. If anyone can do this, it’s Captain Maddox. Can I let him go in alone? No. I have to bring him home in one piece. If I don’t do that, I’ve failed in my duty.

  There was a reason Maddox didn’t want to tell him the details. Riker trusted this young genius, but it was hard to commit for the final kilometer.

  The realization came upon the sergeant that he wasn’t going to get to drink his beer tonight. It was another long night walking the rampart, trying to bring order out of chaos and protect the good people, like his two nieces in Tau Ceti.

  “Okay, sir,” Riker said in a low voice. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Thank you,” Maddox said softly, without looking at him.

  Riker grunted.

  Clearing his throat and wiping away any sentimentality from his features, Maddox said in his usual crisp voice, “We’re headed for France, Sergeant. On the double, I might add. We will land in Dijon at Tenth and Second Streets. Afterward, we will hurry to Monte Carlo.”

  Riker muttered to himself quietly.

  Maddox slouched lower in the seat. “Wake me up once we’re in French air-space.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  Maddox folded his arms against his chest, resting his head against the canopy.

  As Riker headed due east, he knew this was a long shot. The enemy had gone to ground with Meta, and the Earth was a vast place in which to hide someone. Instead of working from the bottom up in the normal Intelligence manner, they were going to the source and working down.

  Could the captain beard Octavian in the tycoon’s best-laid web? They would find out soon enough.

  As Maddox began to breathe rhythmically, old Sergeant Riker raced the flitter across the vast Atlantic Ocean.

  -7-

  Meta blinked groggily. The last thing she remembered was a gray-haired wrestler spraying her in the face with something.

  I’ve been unconscious, she realized. He used a knockout gas on me.

  Fear coursed through her body. A second later, she suppressed it, letting her eyelids slide shut. She relaxed her muscles next. If someone watched her, let him think she almost came out of it but slipped back into unconsciousness.

  I’m sitting in a chair. It’s chilly in here. I feel like I’m in a basement or a meat locker.

  Meta let that settle. After the knockout gas, Kane must have taken her somewhere else. She had no idea why or where.

  That will come. They’ll tell me. So, I
don’t need to worry about it just now.

  “What’s taking so long?” a man asked. “Why isn’t she coming all the way out of it?”

  “I’m unsure,” another man said, one with a reedy voice.

  The first man—Meta recognized his voice. He was the pale-skinned shooter, the one who had fired a tangler capsule at her. The second speaker—she had no idea who he was.

  “We’re supposed to work fast,” the pale man said.

  “Perhaps a stronger stimulant is needed,” the other said.

  “No! Slap her in the face. That will wake her up.”

  There was a half beat. Did the other man have to think about that? Before Meta could decide, she heard approaching footsteps. The charade was up, so she opened her eyes.

  The pale man moved toward her with ugly intent. He was medium-sized, wore a sweater and had sparse blonde hair. As soon as he realized she saw him, the man retreated, disappearing out of sight.

  That proved easy to do down here.

  Meta sat in a metal chair with her ankles and wrists secured by steel bands. She still wore her sequined dress and was barefoot. Harsh lights in the ceiling blazed down. They limited her field of vision to what was directly before her. Behind the light, she heard movement and then whispering. The two men must be conferring on what to do next.

  Meta tested the metal bands around her wrists. They didn’t give her much play, and they would secure an ordinary person. Maybe if she had enough time she could break them. The metal chair felt sturdy, but she thought she felt a loose screw holding down one of the bands.

  “Lower the light’s intensity,” the pale man said.

  The overhead lights softened a fraction. It allowed Meta to see two men in black leather jackets, the ones she had stunned earlier in her apartment. They wheeled a large trolley toward her. It held a tubular machine. Behind them followed a thin man in a white lab coat.

  The bigger of the two street thugs had dark circles around his eyes, and he moved sluggishly. That must be because she’d zapped his head several times with the shock rod. It told her she hadn’t been unconscious that long. The smaller of the two—the original attacker in her bedroom—glowered at her. His mouth looked stiff. Someone must have popped his jaw back into place.

  “I ain’t forgotten you, sister,” he said without moving his lips. Even so, pain creased his face.

  The lab-coated doctor concentrated on the thug as if surprised. “No, no,” the doctor said. He had the reedy voice. “You mustn’t talk to her. Didn’t I tell you that already?”

  While avoiding the doctor’s eyes, Mr. Black Leather Jacket nodded carefully. Meta believed his name was Jacques.

  As the thugs latched the trolley’s wheels, the doctor removed a penlight from his front breast pocket. He clicked it on and approached Meta, shining a blue light in her right eye.

  “Hmm,” the doctor said. He had a garlic odor and compressed his lips in a pinched manner. Switching to her other eye, he repeated the performance.

  Clicking off the penlight, stepping back, he told Meta, “You are lucid.”

  “She’s ready then?” asked the man hidden by the lights, the pale man.

  The doctor turned around. He raised his voice, speaking into the brightness. “I still suggest we wait twenty minutes before we attempt the operation.”

  “You said she’s lucid.”

  “Yes, yes,” the doctor said, “we must first have that. The retardant Kane gave her earlier might interfere with the results if we attempt it too soon.”

  “What retardant?” the pale man asked.

  “He means the knockout gas,” Meta said.

  Although they had restrained her, she could still talk. That meant it was possible to influence the outcome. Speech could be a weapon if wielded skillfully. In this situation, her chances of doing that were slim, but it was better than wilting and accepting fate. Far better to fight, no matter how weak the weapon she had at her disposable.

  The doctor faced her. He appeared thoughtful. With his thumb and index finger, he pinched his lower lip. “You have a remarkable recovery time. That is interesting. Your cognitive abilities seem fully restored. Perhaps we could speed up the procedure without risk.”

  The idea that her talking had harmed rather than helped her made Meta angry. She yearned to hurt the doctor, if only to free a leg and kick him in the shin.

  Maybe he recognized her desire. The doctor hastily stepped away from her.

  “What’s wrong?” asked the pale man.

  “She has a high aggression quotient,” the doctor said.

  “Does that make any difference to the procedure?”

  The doctor peered into the light. “No, why should it?”

  “I’m wondering why you stepped back,” the pale man said.

  “Because he’s afraid of me,” Meta said. It was time to take a new approach. “You should be afraid too.”

  The doctor pinched his lower lip again, studying her as one would a wild beast.

  Meta needed more information on the situation. “Is Kane gone?” she asked. “Is that why you can’t decide what to do?”

  Jacques the thug cracked his knuckles. “Leave me alone with her for a few minutes. She’ll beg to tell us what you want to know.”

  Was Jacques the weak link? The street thug seemed easily goaded. Meta concentrated on him. “I doubt that,” she said. “I think you’d faint again like you did in my bedroom.”

  “Now we see, eh, little sister?” Mr. Black Leather Jacket lurched toward her.

  “Jacques!” the pale man said.

  The thug stopped and peered into the light.

  “Don’t let her prod you,” the pale man said.

  “We should teach her better manners,” Jacques said. Gingerly, he touched his jaw.

  “No!” the pale man said. “We’re here to extract information. Doctor, are you ready?”

  “I’ve reconsidered,” the doctor said. “We’re proceeding too quickly.”

  “You said she was ready,” the pale man said.

  “I know, but…” The doctor shook his head.

  “We have to get started.”

  The doctor raised his eyebrows. “Am I to understand you’re unconcerned about her rationality afterward?”

  The pale man spoke with bite to his words. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s call Kane and ask him.”

  “No need for that,” the doctor said, sounding frightened.

  Was Kane nearby or would they use a comm-unit to speak with him? Meta realized the wrestler scared his men, which was good to know. Why wasn’t Kane down here? If kidnapping her was so important, it seemed like the leader should be here during the interrogation.

  The doctor cleared his throat. “We will proceed on the assumption she should retain her sanity. That will make my task more difficult, however.”

  “You’re unable to do what we need?” the pale man asked.

  “Please,” the doctor said, sounding offended. He stepped to the trolley, opening a slot, making small instruments jangle against each other.

  Meta noticed that the tubular machine had cables with adhesive leads attached to the ends. That reminded her of the alien creature on the shuttle when they’d stormed Victory. Would the doctor hook the cables to her skin and shock her?

  “Why are you doing this?” Meta asked. “What am I to any of you?”

  With his hands in the machine’s slot, the doctor looked up at her.

  “You must begin at once,” the pale man said. “Our time may be limited. You know that, right?”

  The doctor withdrew a hypodermic syringe from the machine. He poked the sharp end into a beer-colored capsule. As he pulled the stopper back, a gloppy yellow sludge filled the needle. After removing the needle from the capsule, he approached Meta. He held the syringe up, with a glistening drop of sludge oozing from the tip.

  Meta knew what she had to do. This was her only chance, and it would be slight indeed. First, she needed to lull them. The easiest way was to make them
think she was frightened.

  “Why not ask me what you want to know?” she said, with trembling in her voice. “I’ll gladly tell you.”

  The doctor smiled, revealing stained teeth. “It should be obvious to you why not. You could spin fabrications.”

  “I won’t lie,” she promised. “Please, don’t use the needle.”

  The doctor’s eyes shined with enjoyment. He turned to the others, and he spoke with greater authority. “I need one of you to tie her upper arm. That will help me find the right vein.”

  “Jacques!” the pale man said.

  “I ain’t no nurse,” Jacques complained.

  “Would you like me to tell Kane that?” the pale man asked.

  Jacques muttered under his breath as he shook his head.

  “There is a rubber tie in the drawer,” the doctor said.

  “Wait a minute,” Meta said breathlessly. “Please, tell me what you’re going to do.”

  The doctor’s smile grew. “Your hostility isn’t quite so pronounced now, is it?”

  Meta shook her head.

  “No, not so hostile at all,” the doctor said smugly.

  What was in the needle? How could she find out? “Will I remember any of this?” Meta asked.

  “I should seriously think not,” the doctor said, lifting the needle. “I will inject you with Z-592. You won’t remember a thing. Depending on your base obstinacy, a subconscious quotient, I will have to do this two or three more times. It might permanently damage your mind.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “But I will most certainly learn what Mr. Kane desires to know.”

  “Kane scares me,” she said. “Who is he really?”

  Before the doctor could answer, Jacques stepped up with a length of rubber tubing in his hand.

  “Tie it around her upper arm,” the doctor said.

  Jacques stared purposefully at Meta. She let her eyes drop as if frightened of him. Chuckling, he stepped closer, using his hands to slide the tubing around her arm.

  Meta had been waiting for this moment. It would appear Jacques had been sufficiently lulled. No doubt, the thug believed himself tough and strong. With a bound woman before him, those feelings of superiority surely increased. Someone like Jacques failed to recognize that a fighter used whatever means in her power.