by Cheryl Angst
They found the captain’s empty pistol and energy weapon as well as traces of human blood, but no body. “Maybe scavengers dragged him into the woods,” the young pilot at her side suggested.
“We haven’t found anything to suggest a body was dragged through the grass,” Rebeccah replied. “But it’s been several days since the attack, the trail could be obscured.” She offered the last as a means to hearten the poor soldier. They all wanted to find the captain, but after two days of searching they were grasping at straws.
“Are you sure you saw them shoot him?” she asked Ryan. “Are you sure he’s dead?”
He looked up and into the trees, unable to meet her eyes. “Yes, sir. I saw them surround him. He was on his knees and he raised his hands above his head. The one standing right in front of him aimed his rifle at the center of the captain’s forehead and then… and then…” He blinked rapidly. “Sir? Can I return to the ship now?” He took a shuddering breath and looked her in the eye. “Being here is harder than I imagined.”
She nodded. They had another eight, maybe ten hours before orders from HQ reached them. As awful as finding his corpse would be, Rebeccah wished they had because at least they’d know for sure.
What if he were still alive? The UESF wouldn’t authorize a search. They wouldn’t negotiate for his release either, because they weren’t supposed to be here. She sighed and finished her examination of the long golden grass. Her mind shied away from the thought of John spending the rest of his life a prisoner on an alien planet.
He’d be better off with a bullet hole in his forehead. She said a silent prayer for his soul and set out to confer with the team searching the nearby underbrush.
Chapter 43
The ground exploded beneath his feet. Weapons fire and shrapnel whirred around his head. Panting as he ran, he dodged between the trees trying to avoid capture. He had no ammunition left, but he carried his pistol in his right hand, its presence an unconscious reassurance of his own training and the support of the UESF. They’d get him out, he’d be safe.
He ran. The smell of sonic weapons and scorched earth clung bitterly to his tongue. The clearing was just ahead, he made out the sound of boots pounding against the metal hatchway as they sprinted into the interior. Gunfire and shouted orders blended into the rustle and snap of the trees and undergrowth as he continued to sprint for the clearing. The whine of the transport’s engines took on a higher pitch and he stumbled.
No.
He pushed himself forward, heedless of his surroundings, bent on reaching the clearing.
No.
He broke through the tree line and stumbled to his knees. He stared in disbelief as the transport pulled up and away, its belly already well above the treetops.
“No! I’m still here,” he shouted. “You left me behind. Wait.”
The transport disappeared from view, leaving the clearing disturbingly quiet. He tore his eyes away from the sky and allowed his shoulders to slump as he stared at the pistol in his hands. He had no idea how long he knelt, hearing and seeing nothing around him, feeling only the emptiness of having been abandoned.
The appearance of a pair of long, narrow boots within his field of vision startled him back to full awareness. He wrenched his neck up at the horrifying vision of the muzzle of an avian assault rifle hovering mere centimeters from his face. Following the weapon back to its owner he watched as the avian raised the visor on his helmet and bared his long rows of teeth in a mockery of a smile.
“You are a prisoner, human,” he said. “If you so much as move without permission, we will kill you.”
A quiet movement behind him made him flinch. A sudden, searing pain radiated out from the back of his skull and his world went black.
* * * *
John tossed and groaned, struggling up from the depths of his nightmare. He lay, gasping for breath in the dark, wondering where the nightmare had come from. After his discharge from the psychiatric hospital, all his dreams revolved around his inability to save his family. The focus of his nightmares never wavered. He rolled onto his side in order to get a glass of water. John grimaced as a burning pain lanced his ribs.
He tenderly examined the area. Images from the ambush on the planet flooded into his consciousness.
Suddenly his surroundings became unfamiliar. The dank room smelled of earth and wet grasses. With no window, his cell was almost pitch black. A thin sliver of light leaked in under the door, illuminating the first ten centimeters of rough, dirt floor. He lay on a hard bench on top of a thin mattress that smelled of vermin and urine, and focused on his breathing. He wished he didn’t know what to expect when his captors arrived, but unfortunately he did.
* * * *
Determined not to show weakness in front of the crew, Rebeccah braced her hands against the desk, ready to return to the bridge with their new orders. Too many things just didn’t add up. Where was his body? His HUD? His transponder? Why wasn’t the transponder working? She had no proof to back her suspicions up, but with every passing moment Rebeccah grew more positive John was alive.
And that belief tore her apart. Their orders to return to Earth arrived with the most recent packet. The innocuous words on the screen were a call home for the ship’s crew, and a death sentence for the captain. She pulled her hair into a tight ponytail as she sought a way to remain in the Cerces system. Their time had run out, and she had to order the helm to plot a course back to human space.
Rebeccah pushed her chair away from the desk, stood, and marched onto the bridge. Somehow she would convince the crew returning home was the right thing to do. The rest of the crew didn’t need to carry the burden of guilt. She would make an announcement stating that, despite their best efforts, the forensics teams had been unable to locate the captain’s body, but had also found no evidence to prove he was still alive. Time and distance would dull their memories and the memo would become the truth.
“Helm, lay in coordinates for Earth,” she said as she slipped into the captain’s chair, her chair.
“Aye, sir. Course plotted.” The ensign looked up at her. “Speed?”
Her last shot at finding the captain rested with keeping the Firestorm within simultaneous signal range of the transponder for as long as possible.
“Standard cruising speed,” she replied.
“Aye, sir, standard cruising speed.”
“But that won’t get us out of the system for days,” exclaimed Targersson.
“I don’t want to tax the engines. We took a lot of damage that should have been repaired in space dock. I’m not going to risk blowing the engines out while we’re still so far into avian space.” She eyed Targersson. “We’ll go to trans-light as soon as we leave the system.”
“Aye, sir,” he replied sourly.
She’d just bought the captain three more days. She prayed he wouldn’t let her down.
Almost as though Targersson read her mind, he said, “He’s gone. Dead. Imprisoned.” He met her startled gaze with a look of defiance. “I don’t understand your loyalty to him. He’s gone. It’s time to move on.”
She gaped at him.
“I don’t know why you gave him command of the ship in the first place.” He sneered. “And I don’t know why HQ thought you were the best choice to make the decision.”
“Are you saying you feel I am unqualified, Lieutenant Commander?”
“I’m saying the captain of this vessel should be someone with ambition and drive, not some bookworm too timid to come out from behind her facts and research. Don’t think I didn’t notice the look of terror on your face after the accident. You were desperate to pawn off command of this ship, desperate enough to beg your professor friend for help.
“I know, I know, he’s a decorated UESF officer. From when? A hundred years ago? If he wanted to take command of a ship, why didn’t he stay on active duty? Why pretend to be a civilian?”
“His mission was--”
“I’ll tell you why, because he didn’t want to serve.
Yet here he was, pretending he knew what he was doing, while good soldiers died.”
“Mr. Targersson, your words are perilously close to mutiny.”
“Mutiny? Against whom? The captain’s dead. You don’t have to keep sucking up to him anymore.”
“I’m not--”
An almost feral gleam crept into Targersson’s eyes as he replied, “What is it then? You weren’t this loyal to Forbes or Cheng. You always kept your distance from them. Why was Thompson different?” He paused. “Were you sleeping with him?”
“Lieutenant!”
“That’s it, isn’t it? That’s how you got him to take command, and how you got him to name you XO. All this time you’ve been screwing him and laughing at those of us who deserved the post but got nothing.”
Anger rushed through her blood, pounding in her ears. “You are out of line, Mr. Targersson.” She had to stop this conversation, fast. “Until recently you have conducted yourself in a professional manner. However, your behavior today is unbecoming an officer and if you persist I will be forced to lay charges and have you removed from the bridge.”
“‘I will be forced to lay charges and have you removed from the bridge,’” he mocked. “Is that the best you can do?” He wrung his hands together under his chin. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. It won’t happen again, sir. Can I polish your boots for you, sir?”
“Security, remove the lieutenant commander from his position and throw him in the brig.” Her hands were shaking as she gripped the console.
What the hell was wrong with him?
Two officers from internal security stepped forward to take Targersson’s arms. She pointed at the senior of the two and said, “I want someone to run a complete psychological profile on him.”
“Aye, sir.”
“And make sure no one questions him or takes his statement without my consent.”
Rebeccah shook her head and bit her lip. How could the regular psych workups overlook such deep misogyny and resentment?
“Yes, sir.”
Targersson glared at her as he was hauled off the bridge. As his guard paused to open the door he said, “Cheng was going to make me XO, you know. You would’ve stayed a lowly lieutenant where you belong.”
Targersson’s words echoed in her mind. Crew morale wallowed in the sewers and this scene would make things even worse. She resisted the urge to slump back into her seat; instead she keyed up several reports that needed attending to and watched their progress as the Firestorm made her way out of the Cerces system.
“Now would be a good time to come back, John,” she muttered under her breath.
Chapter 44
John awoke to a hand roughly shaking his shoulder. He flinched away from the contact and covered his eyes against the light pouring in through the open door to his cell. The figure, a guard he presumed, grabbed him by his shirt and hauled him to his feet. He tried to protect his injured ribs by wrapping his arms around his chest as the guard shoved him toward the door.
“Get moving, chimp,” the avian growled.
John pretended not to understand and stared blankly at the guard.
“Move!” the guard yelled in accented English, pushing John into the corridor for emphasis. John shuffled toward the other guard, who grabbed his wrists and pulled his arms behind his back. The cold metal of the hand restraints sent a shiver up his spine as he watched the first guard place similar restraints on his ankles.
As he shuffled awkwardly down the corridor, John counted the number of steps and turns between his cell and the interrogation room. He tried to ignore the fear trickling down his spine, telling himself he’d been through this before. He’d taken comfort from knowing how capture and imprisonment worked during the war, but his current situation was different. The avians holding him weren’t bound by rules of combat--he was disposable. The thought focused his attention on the layout. If he wanted to live, he’d have to figure out how to escape.
The guards pushed him into a dark room with a single chair positioned in the very center, right under what appeared to be an unlit light source. They thrust John into the chair. The rough seating aggravated his rib injury and he doubled over in pain. His efforts to protect his damaged side were thwarted when the avian guard grabbed his wrists and yanked them over the back of the chair. Wrenched into an uncomfortable, upright position, John let out a quick grunt between gritted teeth.
One of the avians, hearing the noise, laughed and joked with his fellow guard, “If you think that hurts, chimp, just wait until we’re finished with you.”
His buddies laughed, unaware that John understood every word.
* * * *
He had no idea how long the first questioning session lasted. He’d been strapped into a chair for what seemed like days while several different avians asked him the same questions over and over again. Deprived of food and water, he burned with a thirst that threatened to drive him mad once alone in his cell.
“Where is your ship?” the accented English echoed in his mind.
For each and every question he gave the same answer. “Captain John Thompson, United Earth Space Force, Commanding Officer UESF Firestorm, seven-three-two-two-five, one-oh-one-nine, three-six.”
“Are you the captain of the UESF Firestorm?”
“Captain John Thompson, United Earth Space Force, Commanding Officer UESF Firestorm, seven-three-two-two-five, one-oh-one-nine, three-six.”
“What was your mission in our space?”
“Captain John Thompson, United Earth Space Force--”
“Who were you sent to contact?”
“Captain John Thompson, United Earth Space Force--”
“What is the current location of the vessel Firestorm?”
“Captain John Thompson--”
“What are the orders for your ship?”
“Captain John Thompson--”
“What are your orders?”
“Captain John Thompson--”
“Where is the Firestorm?”
“Captain--”
He sat on the bench in his cell and contemplated how much longer he could last before he tried licking the wall in a desperate search for moisture. His pulse tripped as a slot at the bottom of the door opened and a slender, alien hand placed a bowl inside and withdrew. The slot closed and plunged him back into blackness. He crawled on all fours and approached the bowl, careful not to accidentally overturn the contents. He sniffed and instantly recognized the smell.
Bird Barf, they’d called the slop during the war. A thick, albeit nutritious, paste of pre-digested food--the same thing hatch-nurses fed to their charges until they were old enough to fend for themselves. John shuddered as he raised the bowl to his mouth.
Most POWs refused to eat for as long as possible, but he needed to keep his strength if he hoped to escape his imprisonment. Certain the Firestorm wouldn’t remain in the system for long, John knew he had to act fast. With little hope for rescue, he resolved to find a way out or die trying.
* * * *
Each time they took him out for questioning, he memorized more of the route to the interrogation room--constantly searching for clues as to where the intersecting corridors might lead. During his time alone in his cell, he meticulously searched the door for any sign of weakness, and when his fingers grew raw from the exercise, he would sit with his eyes closed and visualize the corridors outside.
The questioning sessions became more unpleasant. The avians tired of his answers. He always responded in English, refusing to reveal he understood their language. On a couple of occasions he’d overheard a few of his captors discussing his situation. The latest discussion was disturbing, but still shed no light on the exact nature of the event they were waiting for.
“Where’d Cleep say we’re dumping the chimp?” asked the guard with the prominent forehead. Iggy, as John thought of him.
“He doesn’t want a trace of the vermin left behind, you fuzz-brain, so we aren’t dumping his carcass,” replied the guard with dark green fa
cial markings. In his mind, John called him Oscar because he was always grumpy.
“What’re we doing with it then?” asked Iggy.
“We’re waiting until we get the signal,” answered Oscar.
“Right,” replied Iggy. Iggy wasn’t the brightest guard in the compound, John noted. Iggy waited a few moments, and then asked, “What signal?”
Oscar swatted Iggy across the back of his head and said, “You fuzz-brain, don’t you pay attention to the briefings?” Oscar kicked John in the shin as he walked around the chair. “As soon as we know the chimp is no longer useful, we’re going to cut him up into little pieces and incinerate his rotten corpse.”
“Oh,” said Iggy. “I remember now.”
* * * *
The slot at the base of the door opened. Hands placed his usual bowl inside. This time, however, the slot didn’t close. Instead, a head appeared, peering into the cell, studying him. He froze. The avian didn’t say or do anything, and John wasn’t about to move or talk. He was tired of being a spectacle for these aliens; tired of being poked and prodded, questioned and beaten. His cell was the one place he was allowed some peace, and he wasn’t about to perform like a lab rat in a maze for the alien staring at him through the food slot.
The avian’s steady gaze grew increasingly uncomfortable. John wished he’d go away so he could eat his bowl of supper and forget about what the future held for him. He’d taken to letting his thoughts wander back to his time on board the Firestorm; wondering what the crew were doing, and even imagining he was back in command. Despite his imprisonment, he found he had no regrets about agreeing to help Nate out. He’d spent the past two decades hiding from life because of the guilt he felt over his wife and daughter’s deaths.
The guilt remained; he doubted the scar would ever fade, but the fear was gone. Burned away by the passion and satisfaction he found in his role as the commanding officer of the Firestorm. Nothing, not even torture at the hands of the avians, took away the sense of peace he felt whenever he thought about his time on the warship. Death, while not something he looked forward to, held no fear either. He’d lived more fully in the past three months than he had in the past fifteen years. For the first time since the loss of his family he felt alive, and he was grateful.