by Ryan Krauter
He finally arrived at the compartment he was searching for. It was four decks right below the bridge, for very obvious reasons in the heart of the ship and most protected from damage. They didn't know much about the ship, but it had been a victim of a Priman EMP torpedo; the weapon had entered through the hangar bay and shut the ship down. The vessel was poked full of holes and the engines were all wreckage. Thankfully, the hyperdrive reactors were buried deep and didn't sustain any major damage; they'd been scrambled by the EMP weapon but otherwise had appeared serviceable to the chief upon his first inspection.
What Loren needed on this solo mission was the main computer core, or at least parts of it. He entered a large compartment, and while it was long and wide the ceiling hung low under the weight of layers of conduit and cabling. There were even places where he needed to duck as he walked under junction boxes and access points. This was the brains of the ship. Without this space and the three story tall computer core, there was no life support, no navigation, no food or engines. It was also what gave the ship its identity, through the various software modifications performed by the crew as well as the IFF assembly. The Identification Friend or Foe system talked to any other IFF it could find and helped verify who was who on the battlefield.
Loren knew what he was looking for, and approached the access panel. After unlatching it, he carefully propped the panel against the wall. The main board was only about as big as his hand; it was the soul of the ship. He read the little metal plaque: CSS Resilience, Ser No. 4525124. Loren realized this number was older than Avenger. This ship had lead a long life at least. Hopefully she could live on to help her sister vessel with one more mission. They were going to travel deep into Priman held space, and Lieutenant Caho had promised she could create an interface for the IFF chip. If they needed a diversion, the CSS Resilience would come calling.
Web thought of fishing, of all things. He'd only done it a handful of times in his life, but remembered every last time he'd been out. Oceans, streams, lakes and even a gimmicky zero G setup at some tourist trap he'd visited on leave; he scrolled through them all. Every type of fish was different; bait, how to present it, how to set the lure and land the creature later. He loved learning the ins and outs of it, having fun while learning a survival skill and earning a tasty supper when he decided to keep the ones he caught. He paused for a second to wonder why he was thinking about this particular topic, though.
He was jarred to the present by a vicious slap to the face.
"Prisoner!" he heard the harsh voice yell. "I did not say you could pass out!"
"Sorry," Web mumbled past his swollen split lip and parched tongue. "May I please pass out?"
He swore he heard the Priman almost laugh, but that might have been a stretch. His interrogator paused and turned, though, leaving Web sitting alone. He was in a small room sitting in an uncomfortable chair, hands bound behind him and attached to the floor. He wore a plain white prisoner's jumpsuit that had long since become stained with dirt, sweat, and a few spots of his own blood. Some of it was Priman, though, a fact he was extremely proud of. The room was dimly lit, with the exception of the bright lights blasting down on him. With the glare and shadows, he still hadn't seen the face of his regular interrogator.
The interrogations had happened daily. Well, Web wasn't really sure. In classic use of psychological interrogation and torture methodology, they'd kept all the prisoners off guard at all times. Sometimes they kept them together, sometimes it was solitary confinement. There were no lights-off periods so their circadian rhythms were wrecked. Meals were served at odd intervals; sometimes it seemed like they were one after the other and other times it felt like a day.
The interrogations had varied. First, they'd tried simple question-and-answer. Name, mission, etc. Then they'd tried good-guy/bad-guy on him. Then it was just bad-guy. After that it was a system of rewards offered. But the latest was the worst, and Web knew sooner or later it would pry whatever it really was that they wanted from him loose. It was some sort of mind probe used in conjunction with a chemical cocktail they shot him up with. They asked him questions, leading ones that were easy to follow. They didn't demand a response, just kept talking. Then, the interrogator would stop and command Web to say something. It was silly at first, and he'd usually blurt out some random thing; a former girlfriend, graphic obscenity, once even a recipe for a noodle dish he liked. But last time he almost said something important. They'd asked for his ship's name, and he'd almost said Avenger. Since then, he'd tried to think of anything other than what they were talking about. He feared the fact that he'd had no control over his reaction when they told him to say something.
"It's just not ready yet," Web barely heard a different voice mutter behind him. "On Priman physiology, yes, but most of these humanoids are different enough that our equipment isn't directly compatible."
Only his Priman captors knew how it really worked. The questions were indeed intended to lead the prisoner along, to make them think about the subject matter at hand. In its highest form, for example, the interrogator would mention the Priman station where Web was captured, say he was a spy, say he attacked them in the middle of a fire. Then they'd ask who his conspirators were, and he'd tell them. It was basic wiring as far as the brain was concerned. If someone said, "the color of your planet's sky is..." you'd think about the sky, think that it was blue, even if you didn't plan to say it; it was just a pathway in your mind. The drug helped remove your internal filter. When the interrogator prompted, the subject would simply blurt out what was on their mind once they made the mental connection: blue.
"How long will it take to fix?" he heard the impatient interrogator's voice command.
"It's not so much time as sampling. I think I can fine tune it in a few weeks, probably less, but I will most likely need to run a few subjects to the breaking point and beyond. Study their neural pathways and autopsy them to see where the connections are forming and where they're not."
"Then start making your preparations. You can begin with this one."
Commander Tash sat at his desk as he listened to Terir report on the day's activities.
"We've stalled in the galactic core, then?" Tash asked brusquely.
Terir didn't bother to sugar coat it. First, he'd briefly been Commander long ago and knew what the Representatives needed to provide for their leader. Second, his fate was tied to Tash, and the Commander in turn didn't bother trying to intimidate him the way he did with many others.
"I'd say our current thrust is not getting results," Terir concluded. "We should change directions, attack somewhere else. Your advisors and I have prepared several other targets that will be suitable alternatives."
"Good enough," Tash grumbled. A chime from his comm unit snapped him out of his increasingly foul mood. "Yes?" he asked.
"Representative Ravine is outside waiting to see you," his aide replied.
"Send the Representative in," Tash commanded.
The Representative entered and waited for Tash to gesture towards a seat, which she took. She was middle aged and still quite striking, by Priman standards as well as many other humanoids. Despite being next in line for Commander and as a result soon to be one of the most powerful people in the galaxy, she still managed to seem accessible, approachable. Tash had seen more than one of the Council pull her aside for a quick discussion in the halls of his headquarters building, much to his chagrin. The Council needed to stay focused on their own jobs and let him attend to military and governance matters. Ravine would have her day. Probably. Unless he managed to make a few more changes, extending his own stay as Commander.
"You have news from the front lines?" prodded Terir, too old or jaded to look at her any longer than necessary to ask his question. Tash, on the other hand, had to make a point not to let his gaze linger.
"Yes, Representative." She turned to Tash as well. "When you are ready, Commander?"
"Please."
She quickly recapped the day's events as well as summar
ized some ongoing actions. The status of the Confederation and its' civil war. The Talaran Collection, in shambles. The Priman efforts to colonize the former Enkarran Empire. And finally, their drive through the galactic core. They needed to span the center of the galaxy and consolidate power among the oldest and most powerful civilizations before they could take a breather. The problem was that working through this spiral arm had taken more resources than they'd ever expected; they were slowing down, running out of ships and personnel.
"I did have one more item which I thought was worthy of attention," she added when done with her prepared briefing.
"That is?" asked Tash.
"Yesterday, a confederation salvage tug was driven off from her charge, a decommissioned Crusader class ship. When she returned, the Crusader was still on course, minus several key components; a main hyperdrive reactor, several external armor panels, four laser batteries, and her entire cache of 3D printing materials."
"What's the connection?" asked Terir, though the smoldering look on Tash's face showed that the other man knew what it was.
"Primans have no need to rob from ships like this. The ploy was advanced, professional and well executed. Based on these and other factors, I believe that it was Avenger trying to claim parts for her own repair."
The words hung in the air. Ravine had nothing to add, but Terir was reluctant to speak. He opened his mouth once or twice, but changed his mind and remained silent.
"Surely there are other Crusader class vessels in need of parts on both sides of Confed's civil war?" Tash began unconvincingly.
"True, Commander, but none that have any apparent need since their war is at a stalemate. Also, we know the senator has decreed Avenger to be rogue and would be pursued by any Confed forces who saw them, which would give them a very obvious reason to acquire parts by such a means."
Tash just grunted. "You're probably right. I'd give up any planet we've yet conquered to watch that ship sail slowly into a sun."
"Their worthiness as adversaries will make it that much more enjoyable when they are finally defeated or see the light," Ravine said with confidence.
"You're a fan of their work?" Tash said, a dangerous tone creeping into his voice.
"Not at their rebelliousness to us, Commander, only their dedication to the cause. We speak of our own righteousness and virtue, and here is a ship full of beings we helped create showing those very traits. True, they defy us, but they honor us with their drive."
"My job, and by extension yours, Representative, would have been much easier if they'd ceased to honor us in this way a long time ago. Between destroying the DNA weapon and kidnapping our former Commander, among other transgressions, I'd rather watch them burn so we can start over. Sometimes I wonder what our ancestors were thinking."
Ravine said nothing, just smiled and nodded as she'd learned to do. Tash's desires were well known; destroy the experimental civilizations outright in order to cement the Priman hold on the galaxy. They could start over with their studies if they really wanted to, though Tash was not a supporter of that, either. He wanted to rule, to reform the entire galaxy in the Priman image. Perhaps, his own image.
Ravine knew there was a growing divide among the Council regarding Tash's aspirations. Some wanted to end the war quickly and return to their former lives as scientists, thinkers. Others wanted to reconcile, to make peace with their 'children' in this galaxy. Yet others wanted nothing less than retribution for being tossed out of the galaxy itself after losing their war. Ravine still didn't know where she fell, but sooner or later somebody would need to rise up and be a voice for moderation. For while Tash was all about obliteration, nobody else was willing to take the personal risk of offering another choice. The Council deferred time and again, unable or unwilling to decide which course of action to back.
Representative Velk, former Commander, would have known what to do. No one man or woman could be perfect at everything required to rule, but he'd stayed in the middle ground better than most.
Two
Garrett Drayven was not having fun. He'd flown his ship to meet a contact in order to broker an information trade in return for providing transportation to one of his clients. The trip had been short and uneventful, save for the lone Confederation destroyer which tried to board him since their sensor scans of his ship had made the captain doubt Garrett was a simple chauffeur. A short code phrase whispered to the officer in charge had resulted in him being sent on his way. No doubt the verbal lashing the poor bastard had received from Admiral Nodam Bak upon validating the code would haunt the man for years.
Velk had been forced to remain in his expanded but locked stateroom for all three days of travel. The arrangement between Garrett, Admiral Bak, and Velk had loosened the formality of Velk's 'capture', and instead the Priman usually found himself with free roam of Garrett's ship. Admiral Bak had reluctantly agreed to let Velk go with Garrett as long as he conducted low-risk, easy deals while watching the most important prisoner in the Confederation's grasp. Garrett's client was mildly perturbed that he couldn't go into Velk's locked stateroom, but it wasn't a deal breaker.
No, the only thing that bothered him was the location, at the very top of the world where they were meeting. It was an underground city, but all the hangars were on the surface, and Garrett had trudged around between hangars and meets for two hours before business was done.
Now, slapping the button which closed the main hatch of his ship and stomping the snow off his boots, he realized he hated the cold. He hated the heat, too. He'd need to find just the right planet to settle down on some day...
He hung his parka over the back of one of the chairs at his conference table in the main hold and sat down in another. He quickly brought up his message buffer and a few favorite news feeds. One message stuck out; it was an alias Loren used to contact him.
Realizing that he was looking forward to hearing from the Confed man, he tapped the button to play the message.
"Mr. Drayven," Loren began with a smile. "I hope this message finds you safe from enemy fire with your portfolio on the rise. I have great news. Remember our mutual friend who's been begging for that ride home? Well, we're all fixed up here and ready to get going. So, if you can do it, in two days let's meet at that disgusting restaurant where we got food poisoning on the cargo orbital above the planet whose name we don't say out loud. Don't worry; it's still our secret how badly you begged me to shoot you while in the throes of intestinal pain." The message ended.
Garrett laughed despite himself. True, there had been food poisoning. But Garrett had put the bacteria in their food himself. He'd needed to get into the station's medical bays to do a little snooping, so after his meet with Loren was done he'd simply jumped right into the next job. He had, however, crossed that particular trick off his list and instead put it in the column he liked to call 'Don't Ever Do This Again'.
He tapped a control tab on the table top. "Representative Velk, you might want to come out here. This message is for you."
Web was back in general population. He recognized some of the politicians in the secret prison underneath the surface of Callidor. It was obvious the Primans weren't positive of his identity. Sure, they knew he was a saboteur, but they obviously weren't sure he was Confed or he most likely wouldn't be roaming free.
He'd catalogued many of the political leaders during his time in captivity. Most of the politicians were allowed to mingle freely, unlike the soldiers, mercenaries, pirates and Fixers that had been caught. That second lot was a seedy bunch, and the Primans seemed to encourage infighting among that group. Web had been hazed once by a man that had either been a pirate or merc muscle. After breaking the man's arm and offering to do the same to any other challengers, he'd been left alone as they sought to refine the prison pecking order.
"Another session with the interrogators?" Web heard a voice from behind him. He turned, not as fast as prudence would have dictated but at the right speed to show he wasn't startled by the man's efforts.
"Actually, we were trading recipes," Web countered lightly.
"I'm a big fan of soup, myself."
Web just stared at the man, measuring him.
"Name's Mithus," he finally offered, to which Web just nodded. "Sometimes people introduce themselves with their own name after a stranger does that."
"Well, Mithus, you're right on that one." Web shuffled up against a building and leaned back against it in the scant shadow that the roof overhang provided. He would never let the Primans know how much he enjoyed the occasional surface time they were allowed. It wasn't all that much; a simple high walled courtyard bordered by tall buildings that saw a constant stream of Priman shuttle traffic to the higher floors and roofs. "The problem, being in a prisoner of war camp and all, is that you know as well as I do that either of us could be a ringer, selling out to the Primans. You say 'Hi, I'm Mithus'. We become pals and next thing you're asking me about all kinds of stuff I'd never tell an interrogator."
"Fair enough," Mithus said with an easy grin. "At least you haven't broken yet. Sooner or later they'll find a way, I suppose. Want to help me escape?"