Taken Liberty v5

by Steven H. Wilson

  "What does that mean?" wondered Celia.

  Instead of answering, Cernaq leaped toward the open hatch and the corridor beyond. Five jumped to block him.

  "Oh no! You're staying right here!"

  "You don't understand," Cernaq said weakly. "She's –"

  "I understand that you're confined to quarters, Mister! Now get back, or I'll be forced to restrain you."

  Sestus Blaurich was noted for his athletic prowess. Against as small and waif-like an opponent as Cernaq, anyone would have expected him to easily triumph in a fight. He was supremely confident that he could incapacitate the Phaetonian with one blow.

  It came as a great surprise to him when Cernaq decked him. He rebounded off the corridor bulkhead opposite the entrance to Cernaq's cabin, and lay, his breath knocked out, his pride wounded, watching his unlikely attacker disappear around the curve of the ship's hull.

  * * *

  Aer'La was secreted away in a storage locker in one of the ship's holds. Cernaq had indelicately snatched the information from Metcalfe's mind the second he'd lost contact with her. He had run as fast as he could, his energies focused on re-establishing contact with Aer'La's mind. Only to cloud the minds of onlookers, to slow any pursuit, did he allow himself to be distracted. He could not render himself invisible to a crowd, the way he had befuddled the guard in Aer'La's cabin. That would have required contact with each and every mind. The effort would have exhausted or even killed him.

  But he could cause a mild disorientation, a sense of doubt. People would see him running, but not be sure it was Cernaq they saw. It would slow them down, anyway. Time. He needed time. Seconds counted.

  The hold was not staffed. The cargo here had been marked for long-term storage. Most of the bins contained supplies the Titan would need during the course of her travels. In Metcalfe's mind, he saw the locker where Aer'La was hiding. Roughly he extracted the combination and keyed it, grateful it wasn't counter-secured with a DNA scan.

  The latch released, and the container front popped loose. Cernaq flung it open. The space inside was small, just enough for an average-sized person to recline somewhat comfortably. It was tall enough for even the tallest person to stand inside. Tall enough for a few feet of clearance between the head and the ceiling of the bin. Tall enough for a few feet of clearance between the toes and the floor, if a person were to suspend herself from the ceiling...

  Tall enough for a noose, improvised from the legs of Aer'La's coverall, to have clearance to be looped around a cargo hook in the ceiling. Tall enough for her feet to clear the floor as she hung...

  Cernaq, suppressing a decided urge to vomit, leaped into the bin and caught Aer'La around the middle, lifting her frame to relieve the pressure of the noose around her neck. He registered the heat of her body, the faint pulse of her heart as he pressed his head against her chest. Her consciousness was too far submerged for him to tap her mind for life signs, even in these close quarters. With a human it might have been possible. Aer'La was not human.

  The tension on the noose relieved, he was able to slip it free of the cargo hook, and Aer'La's weight descended onto his shoulders. Dead weight, came the words, unbidden, to his mind.

  He heaved her quickly to the deck outside, placing her on her back. As his hands began to prepare her for CPR, his mind called out desperately to Celia Faulkner, beckoning her to join him here, transmitting the sense of emergency. He felt her presence far away. The ability of a non-Phaetonian mind to respond was limited, especially at a distance. Celia was trained in opening her mind at other levels, however. He detected her acknowledgement, her understanding of the situation.

  As he brought his lips to Aer'La's to force air into her lungs, he also desperately, irrationally wished that Metcalfe had taught him to pray...

  * * *

  That the man was a born thief should have surprised no one. Leaning over Atal's desk with one hand behind his back, like some ancient general planning a campaign, Harl had perused the schematics Atal had supplied. As quickly as any professional might case a prospective victim's home, he'd stabbed a finger at the screen and exclaimed, "There!"

  He'd indicated the full-G cargo holds, which he'd pronounced the most likely place for a fugitive to hide. He'd tried to insist on going alone, to avoid interference. Fournier had almost let him, but Atal had put his foot down – the risk to ship's property was too great. Harl would certainly not be careful to avoid damaging cargo and containers in his search. Atal, Mors and Fournier wound up accompanying him. Mors had insisted on Pallas as well. When she joined them in the hold, Atal thought something seemed amiss with the young doctor. She was sullen. Her eyes lacked the sparkle, however mild, that he was accustomed to seeing in them. Fournier had insisted on having Metcalfe brought in as well, to witness his defeat at the hands of the Varthan Captain. As two of Fournier's marines lead him into the hold, his wrists cuffed behind him, he noted the boy's defiant glare at the Admiral, followed by a sympathetic glance from Mors, and Pallas's gaze going to the floor.

  Ah well, Atal thought, time to sort that out later.

  Fournier opened his mouth, no doubt to bait Metcalfe, but was interrupted by a shout from the corridor. Darby came in, leading a limping Sestus Blaurich, who also sported a very black eye.

  "Captain! We have a situation!"

  "Darby," snapped Fournier, "we're dealing with a situation here, as well. Get the boy to medical... and for all our sakes, don't let the cameras see the state he's in!"

  It gave Atal selfish pleasure to see that some things weighed heavily enough to make Fournier cease fawning over the little prince.

  "B-but sir," blustered Darby, "Blaurich was injured during an escape! By Midshipman Cernaq!"

  "Cernaq... did that?" Atal wondered.

  "He... he just went crazy," said Blaurich.

  Fournier rolled his eyes. "What next?" he demanded.

  "Where is Cernaq now?" asked Atal.

  Darby shook his head. "No idea, sir. I expect he'll be with the feral –"

  Harl, while they spoke, had been opening and examining the various bins, opening every storage locker, poking and prodding every suspension net, trying to force the lids off containers. As Darby spoke, he called out, "Who had the combination to these?"

  He was standing before a bank of storage lockers designed for dry goods and other non-perishables. They were kept locked to prevent the crew helping themselves. Only the quartermaster normally maintained the combinations. Atal crossed to Harl.

  "That is an airtight container. I doubt the girl has evaded your clutches only to suffocate herself."

  "Ye'd be amazed at what I seen in my line of work, Atal. These ferals will try anything. This case fr'instance," he gestured at the secured door. "With a portable oxygen supply, a good-sized man or woman can last hours inside. 'Course a lot of 'em go crazy from bein' locked in the dark. And some of 'em do suffocate. I've retrieved a dead body or two."

  "Get him the damned combinations, Atal," said Fournier.

  Atal keyed his data implant, accessed the quartermaster files, and selected the combination key chart. Numerals appeared in the air before him, and he shoved them roughly toward Harl. The holographs glided obediently into place

  "I'd appreciate it," Atal said, "if you'd exercise appropriate care. All of this cargo is valuable, and much of it will be destroyed if you tamper with it."

  He bowed. "As you say, Captain." With a sideways glance, he began keying combinations in, opening doors, shining his hand torch inside. When he reached the third door, the punched combination resulted, not in the satisfying click of an opening latch, but the jarring buzz of an entry error. Harl tried the combination again, only to receive the same rude noise. He turned to Atal. "Combination's wrong for this one."

  "It's been changed," Darby postulated.

  Fournier turned on Metcalfe. "Well?"

  Metcalfe swallowed. "Well what?"

  "Don't toy with me, Mr. Metcalfe! You're practically convicted already! You'd best cooperate."


  Metcalfe looked to Atal. "Captain, this is ridiculous! He just wants to rifle through our cargo and identify what we have. If he sends word to his raider friends –"

  Harl flushed, turning his attention away from the door. The insinuation that, because he was Varthan, he was in league with raiders and pirates was blatantly insulting. All Varthans reacted badly to the suggestion that they participated in this kind of activity, because most of them did participate in this kind of activity.

  Atal started to speak, to stem off yet another physical confrontation, but Fournier beat him to it. "Mr. Metcalfe, please remember you're here as a prisoner, to witness the discovery of evidence which will no doubt lead to your conviction and imprisonment. It is not your place to insult an investigator performing his lawful duties. Now sir, the combination."

  "Captain –" Metcalfe barked again, almost desperately.

  "Give it to him," Atal said quietly.

  Sneering, almost choking on the words, Metcalfe recited a string of alphanumerics. Harl keyed the combination, and the door flipped obediently open.

  And an arm flipped suddenly out. Aer'La's arm.

  Mors was at her side first, cradling the body, which fell limply and sickeningly against him, a scrap of torn fabric tied at its throat.

  As often as Atal had seen death, nothing prepared him for the sight of Aer'La's body, the swollen tongue, the shock white of the skin in death, the agony etched on the once beautiful face, bespeaking the pain of Aer'La's final, tortured moments of life.

  Mors said quietly, "No life signs. It's been here for a few hours."

  Harl's fists shook in frustration. Cheated of his victory, he looked as if he might easily kill them all.

  "There will be restitution for this, Atal."

  "Do I understand that you expect a cash settlement?" Mors asked slowly, still holding the body in his arms. "For the loss of your property?"

  "We..." Harl sputtered, caught off guard. "Justice was to have been done. There was to have been a trial. She was a murderer!"

  "If she was, then justice has been done," Mors said. "In our space, Captain, suicide is the right of the accused. We believe a person has the right to first judge herself. Obviously, Aer'La did."

  Harl almost spat. "We have no such 'rights' in Varthan space. You have cheated us –"

  "Not us," Atal said. He turned to Metcalfe, whose face was ashen. He looked close to tears.

  "Captain, I'm –" he began.

  "Did you hide her here?" Atal demanded.

  "Yes, sir."

  "I knew it," said Fournier.

  Atal ignored him. "What did you hope to accomplish?"

  "I didn't want them to take her," he replied, with no inflection. His voice was dead. His eyes were dead. As dead as Aer'La's body just yards away.

  "So you left her alone in the hold, knowing she was terrified, knowing she was desperate. If you hadn't acted like an imbecile, she'd still be alive."

  Metcalfe bit back a sob. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

  "You're... you're sorry?" Atal said it again, shouting, "You're sorry?" With no warning, he drove his fist into the boy's jaw. Metcalfe fell hard and didn't get up. Fournier jumped backward from where he'd been standing a proprietary watch beside his prisoner.

  "Gods, Atal!" he snapped, more surprised than anything else.

  "Your apology can't raise the dead," the Captain said to the quivering body on the floor. To the two marines he snapped, "Get him out of here."

  Fournier recovered himself and turned his diplomatic charms on Harl. "Captain, I cannot say how much I regret this unfortunate situation, and you understand that I speak for the Admiralty. I assure you, we shall meet with your government to negotiate a –"

  "Shut up," Harl said quietly, menacingly.

  "I – Captain, please – !"

  "I said 'shut up,' you mincing prick!"

  Fournier blanched.

  Harl went on. "I'm tired of listening to you, Fournier. I was the moment you opened your mouth, and now you've nothing to offer me, I don't have to listen anymore."

  He stalked away down the corridor. It was clear that, having seen Aer'La's corpse, he'd lost all interest in the others. It almost seemed he was pretending not to care. Perhaps he had to. Aer'La had defeated him once and for all, in his eyes. She'd cheated him of the opportunity to take possession of her, which was clearly what he wanted in this matter.

  As Harl left, Pallas watched him a moment, then bolted after him. Metcalfe, still on the deck, watched her go, burying his face in his hands.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Revelations

  Two hours later, Atal was back in his office with Fournier, Mors and Metcalfe. Metcalfe had been returned to his cell and given a chance to clean up. He still looked disheveled and somber, of course. The mood among the ship's officers was grim. Atal had not ordered a search for Cernaq. There would be time for that. Feeling a complete bastard, he'd also avoided seeing Kaya. He knew she needed him now, but he simply could not see her. He hoped, eventually, she would forgive his callousness.

  Metcalfe slumped on Atal's office couch, listening dumbly to Fournier. He almost appeared drugged, his reactions were so limited.

  "The court martial will begin at ship's time 0700 tomorrow," Fournier announced. "I will chair the court martial board, Mr. Metcalfe, and I think it fair to warn you that I intend you to spend the rest of your life in prison. Even if I wanted to be charitable, I can't afford to be. You've gone too far over the line. You've made a mockery of the discipline of the service, and you must be brought down hard."

  Was this mugging, painting as bleak a picture as he could for the boy, so Metcalfe would confess, accept a lighter sentence, and make Fournier's life easier? Or was it just the Admiral's need to flex his muscles, even before a defenseless opponent? It was hard to know with Fournier.

  "You've done your people little good," he went on. "You've only confirmed the stereotypes you claim you want to disprove. You can't expect the government of Terra to come to your defense, either."

  It was true that, at Metcalfe's last court martial, the Terran government had issued a statement, asking for lenience. Citing anti-Terran bigotry in the mass media, and the many cases of unprovoked violence against Terran nationals throughout Confederate space, it was easy to see how a Terran could be driven to feel persecuted, and perhaps react violently.

  Clearly, it still galled Fournier that Metcalfe had received such support. Unfortunately, Atal thought, he was probably right that no one from Terra would stick his neck out in such a manner twice.

  Fortunately, it wasn't left to a Terran official to stick his neck out this time. Atal cleared his throat.

  Fournier looked at him. "Something the matter, Atal?"

  "I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to convict Midshipman Metcalfe, sir," he said. "You see, insubordination usually involves disobeying orders."

  "And he has!"

  "No, sir, I'm afraid he hasn't. I ordered him to hide Aer'La."

  "But –" Fournier's eyes went wide. No doubt, he was at once outraged at this confession and thrilled by the prospect of finally hauling Atal up on charges. Then his eyes narrowed. "You're making that up! You're just trying to –"

  "I have a witness."

  Atal nodded at Mors, who smiled and inclined his head.

  "I heard Jan give the order, in this very room."

  Fournier shrugged. "Well, maybe Metcalfe obeyed your orders, but he certainly disobeyed mine, and –"

  "Again, under my orders, sir. I specifically ordered him to refuse to cooperate with you. So, your charge of insubordination must be leveled against me."

  "Huh! Well –" He sputtered for a moment, mulling over his options.

  Mors said gently, "Before you make any decisions, Admiral, I think you should wait and hear how the Captain has spared the Navy considerable embarrassment."

  The door from the Promenade opened. Pallas stepped in, now looking far more collected than she had in the hold. She nodded grac
iously to Fournier and stood expectantly before the door as it slid shut.

  "Oh, great," Metcalfe muttered. "The witness for the persecution."

  Pallas didn't react. Of course, she probably already knew anything Metcalfe had to say about her.

  "Stand down, Mr. Metcalfe," said Atal.

  "This," Pallas said formally, holding up a small silver shaft about the size of a grape, "is a standard issue audio recorder and DNA verifier. I'm sure Admiral Fournier is familiar with their use."

  Fournier grunted. He would be familiar with such things, of course. The recorders had defeated the age-old argument that voice and image captures could be faked, and thus were not admissible as evidence in courts of law. By capturing a DNA sample from the saliva or skin of the speaker and coding the sample to the recording, it verified the identity of the speaker, and verified, legally, that they had said what they had said. It could be faked, of course, but so could signatures and fingerprints. This was actually a more reliable verification.

  "You'll hear my voice first. The other belongs to Captain Harl." She slid the cylinder into the interface port on Atal's desk terminal, and the voices played back on the office speakers.

  "Captain Harl!"

  "Oh... Hello, Doctor."

  "Are you leaving?"

  "Not much point in me staying, is there?"

  "I see that you're frustrated. I imagine you wanted to see the girl stand trial."

  "That, uh... Well, she's escaped her just comeuppance, I must say."

  "I sense loss, Captain, if you'll forgive my being so bold. She meant more to you than you've told the others. She represented more..."

  "Well, that... "

  "You needn't be reticent with me, Captain. Since touring your ship, I've seen what savages the creatures are. Aer'La... she often threatened me with physical violence. Such dangerous elements must be... controlled."

  "You're very understanding, milady. Perhaps it's true that Phaetonians are a cut above the rest of the humans."