by Cheryl Angst
His desire to live, and to keep on living, sustained him during the violent interrogations. He was determined to make the most of the remainder of his days, even if they were spent as a prisoner of a war that had not yet begun.
He wondered why the avian seemed so fascinated. Perhaps he hadn’t seen John up close, or perhaps someone organized a bet to see how long the avian could look on the alien before chickening out. Either way, John wanted the scrutiny to end. Taking in a deep breath and pursing his lips, he looked the avian right in the eye and said, “Boo.”
The avian’s eyes went as wide as saucers and the slot banged into place. Plunged into darkness, and privacy, John tilted back his head and laughed.
Chapter 45
When Rebeccah arrived in the brig, she found Targersson sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head cradled in his hands. A thick sheet of blast-shield-rated glass separated his cell from the main area. She dismissed the guard at the station, walked over, and stood staring down at him.
He looked like hell.
He stared at her, bleary-eyed. “What do you want? I told the shrinks I don’t want to talk.”
“Those same shrinks told me you’re suffering from an intense depression.”
“I’m not depressed,” he growled. “Leave me the hell alone.”
“Have you listened to yourself lately?” she asked. “I don’t care what you want to call it. You’re not the same man who joined our crew two years ago.”
“People change.”
“Not this much, and not this fast. Not without a reason.”
“Are you going to charge me with insubordination? Try and get me dishonorably discharged?” he asked.
Rebeccah sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “You’re not leaving me with much choice. Without some sort of explanation or revelation of extenuating circumstances, I’m afraid you’re backing me into a corner.”
“Figured.”
“I don’t want to see you dishonorably discharged,” she replied, “but you can’t serve on my bridge if you’re going to attack me and question my orders.”
“Your bridge?” His voice dripped with scorn. “Your bridge? It was never supposed to be your bridge.”
“If you think I wanted this--”
“I know you don’t want this, that’s what’s so galling,” he replied as he stood and approached the glass. “First you go and choose him over all the capable officers on board, and then you take the chair for yourself as soon as he screws up the mission and gets everyone killed. All the while, people like me would give anything to have the opportunity to step up.”
“Why didn’t you apply to take the Bridge Officers’ exam?”
“I did.” Targersson began to pace. “Three times.”
“And?”
“And that bastard, Forbes, refused to approve each one.”
“Did he give you a reason?” she asked.
Targersson snorted. “Yeah, some crap about having too much ambition and not enough dedication to the welfare of my subordinates.”
“Why didn’t you come to me after the accident? I would’ve let you argue your case.”
“I figured you’d at least consult me before making your decision.” He shrugged. “How was I supposed to know you’d choose him?” He paused and approached the barrier. “Cheng would’ve made a better captain.”
“Is that what this is about?” she asked. “The accident?”
Targersson crossed his arms and looked away.
“Look, I’m no counselor, but I’ve served long enough to know that sometimes good people die.”
“He wasn’t supposed to die!” Targersson moved to the rear of his cell and huddled against the wall. “None of them were supposed to die.”
Her limbs tingled as all the blood rushed to her abdomen. Did he mean--
“Miller to Cmdr. Santiago.”
Rebeccah forced her feet to propel her to the guard station in the center of the room. “Santiago here, go ahead.”
“Sir, we just picked up a faint transmission.” Rebeccah glanced back at Targersson, trying to determine her priority.
“And?” she asked.
“And,” Lt. Miller paused and took a deep breath, letting the air out in a nervous rush. “Sir, I think it’s Captain Thompson’s emergency transponder.”
* * * *
“Report,” Rebeccah called as she strode onto the bridge.
“Sir,” replied the ensign at communications, “at sixteen-twenty-two hours, one of the aft arrays picked up a faint repeating signal. Due to the repetitive nature of the signal, the computer automatically ran a database search for similar or matching signals and patterns.
“At sixteen-twenty-three hours the computer reported a match and the results were routed to my terminal. I verified the transmission, and sir,” the ensign said, breaking into a huge grin, “I can say with absolute certainty we found Captain Thompson’s emergency transponder.”
“Can you pinpoint the signal?” Rebeccah asked.
“Cerces III, for sure, sir,” she replied. “We’re pretty far away from the source, so I can’t be more specific than that.” She looked down at her console. “I’m sorry.”
“Ensign, you have nothing to apologize for,” Rebeccah said. “Are you sure it’s not an automatically generated signal? Perhaps someone accidentally turned it on?”
“I thought that at first, sir,” the ensign replied, “but the beeps don’t match the standard transmission pattern for our transponders.”
“Play it for me.”
“Aye, sir.”
The bridge filled with the sound of static and white noise as she pulled up the transmission file. Amongst the whine and wheeze of the recording a clear, but weak beeping could be discerned.
“Can you filter out the background static?”
“No, sir,” the ensign replied. “This is as clean as I could get the recording without washing out the signal itself.”
“All right, how long did it broadcast for?”
“The pattern repeats three times then stops, sir.”
“What is the pattern?”
The ensign shook her head. “Nothing I’ve ever heard before. I ran it through the computer too. It’s not UESF standard code. It’s not even old fashioned Morse Code.”
A series of beeps and pauses crackled through the bridge speakers.
One beep. Pause. Twelve beeps. Pause. Nine beeps. Pause. Twenty-two beeps. Pause. Five beeps. Pause.
Rebeccah ran through a list of basic codes and gasped. “Ensign, confirm: the pattern is one--twelve--nine--twenty-two--five.”
She held her breath as she waited for confirmation. If she was correct…
“Confirmed, sir. Pattern reads, one--twelve--nine--twenty-two--five.”
Rebeccah fought the urge to leap from her chair and cheer. The simple alpha-numeric code spelled one word: A--L--I--V--E.
“Helm, reverse course for Cerces III, maximum speed.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Congratulations, Ensign. Your care and attention to detail may have helped to save the captain’s life.”
The ensign beamed. “Thank you, sir,”
“I want you to boost the output on the forward arrays as much as possible. Divert power from the others if necessary. If his signal is broadcast again, I want to capture the strongest transmission possible.”
“Aye, sir.”
She hoped they weren’t flying into another trap.
Chapter 46
John landed in a heap of bruised limbs on the floor of his cell. The interrogation had been long, monotonous, and painful. In the end, the avians resorted to injecting him with a serum designed to reduce his resistance to questioning. His body reeled from the side effects of the drugs. He couldn’t recall the specifics of what he’d said, he was horrendously dizzy, his hands and feet were swollen, and wave after wave of nausea wracked his body. He lay, shivering in the dirt, waiting for the symptoms to wear off.
The slot at the base of
the door slid open and he groaned. The light sent spiking bolts of pain into his brain and his stomach revolted at the thought of food. He waited, breathing quickly and shallowly, for the slot to close and his cell to be plunged into blissful darkness once more. When the light continued to beat into his skull, he cautiously opened one eye and discovered the avian face staring at him again.
“Leave me alone,” he groaned through swollen lips as he tried to turn his back to the voyeur.
“You have to get out of here,” the avian replied in heavily accented English.
He hunched his shoulders against the intruding voice. “Go away.”
“They’re going to kill you.”
“Go. Away.”
“They found your ship.”
John’s soul bled. He must’ve told his captors everything.
“You need to get out of here.”
“Are you going to help me?” he asked sarcastically. The avian was silent, and John expected the slot to close, leaving him alone with his guilt.
The alien on the other side of the door coughed and shifted slightly. “Yes,” he whispered.
* * * *
John awoke from a dream where the dead avian agent from the clearing had come to his cell and offered to help him escape. Kree had quickly outlined his plan, explaining that he’d already signaled the Firestorm in the hopes the ship would return to the planet. He huddled cold and stiff on the floor and dismissed the dream as yet another side effect of the drugs. He crawled slowly and painfully over to his sleeping bench, needing to escape the brutal chill of the ground.
He suspected his subconscious was right. His captors were going to kill him soon. The amount of truth serum they’d used indicated a lack of concern for his long-term survival. Normally given in gradually increasing doses to systematically break down the prisoner’s ability to resist their questioning techniques, the serum proved to be highly dangerous when given in a single, high dose.
Thoughts of his imminent demise brought his anger to the surface. He didn’t fear dying. How could he? He’d been waiting for death to claim him since the day he lost his family. In many ways he’d ceased to live, becoming a breathing automaton, refusing to seek out or take any joy in life. Taking command of the Firestorm had reawakened his enthusiasm for living. He still suffered from the nightmares, and he still lived with guilt from the past, but each morning he awoke ready to tackle the day with an excitement he hadn’t felt since his first space posting over thirty-five years ago.
Now they were going to take everything away. His rage built as he thought of the unfairness. He was angry at them for depriving him of the opportunity to go on living, he was angry at himself for wasting all those years, and he was angry at the universe for showing him life was worth living then cruelly whipping it away.
Damn.
And now his subconscious tormented him with dreams of escape. It wasn’t fair.
He picked morosely at his meal, close to despair, but not quite ready to give in. He leaned his head against the rough wall and opened his eyes when the sound of the opening slot interrupted his dark thoughts.
“Are you ready?” the avian whispered.
“What?”
“The shift changed and Greel is on duty now. I told him I’d watch your cell while he stepped out for a puff,” he explained, “but he’ll be back in a few minutes and we need to get you out of sight before then.”
“Are,” he stammered, “are you Kree?”
The avian rolled his eyes. “Yes.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Now, can we get going? I thought you understood the plan.”
John dropped to his hands and knees at the slot, peering into the large, dark eyes gazing back at him. “I thought you were a dream, a side effect of the drugs.”
Kree shook his head. “You have funny dreams, human. Now let’s go.” He thrust his hands forward, and John realized he planned on pulling him out through the food slot.
“You can’t be serious,” John exclaimed. “I can’t fit through there.”
“Do you want to die?” Kree looked over his shoulder again. “Trust me.”
He gestured with his hands, and John reluctantly thrust his own through the slot. Kree’s hands gripped his with incredible strength, and without warning he yanked John out of the dark cell.
John’s heart caught in his throat when his shoulders got wedged in the opening. Letting out a soft whistle, Kree savagely wrenched on his arms, tilting his body down and to the left, and pulled him through. Nothing popped or snapped, but John knew, if he survived, his arms were going to hurt like hell for weeks.
John blinked and tried to stand. He anxiously scanned the corridor, terrified they’d be caught. Kree surveyed his appearance and covered his nostrils with a delicate hand. “You smell worse than the sawdust under a hatchling’s birth site.”
“Thanks,” John grinned wryly. He didn’t feel much better either.
“Hurry,” Kree said as he jogged down the corridor. After turning the corner, he opened a storage closet and gestured John inside. “Get in.”
John gave him a puzzled look. “I have to go back and pretend you’re still in the cell.” He cocked his head, listening. “Someone’s coming. Get in. You’ll find clean clothes in the back.”
* * * *
Kree’s heart raced. He jogged back to the cell and took up his position standing to the right of the door just as Greel turned the corner and approached. Forcing his breathing to slow, he feigned nonchalance as the large avian guard came to take his place.
“Any trouble?” Greel asked.
“No, uh, well,” Kree let his true nervousness show as he spoke. “He was making some noises, and I was worried something was wrong, but when I checked he appeared to be sleeping.”
Greel nodded. “It’s a natural sound for humans.” He clasped Kree on the shoulder. “Sounds pretty unhealthy to us, but they call it ‘snoring,’ and the noise is supposedly quite common among their species.”
Kree nodded, wide-eyed.
“So, what did you think of your first chance to stand guard?”
“I--it was a bit stressful,” he replied.
“If you’d like, I’ll put a good word in for you with Trillip. You seem like a good sort. Too good to spend your life as a cart boy.” Greel grinned and slapped him on the back. “Thanks for watching him for me. He should be pretty quiet for the rest of the evening.”
“You’re, you’re welcome,” Kree replied as he took off down the corridor.
* * * *
John felt his way along the shelves until he reached the back of the closet. He moved completely on touch as he navigated the tight aisle. He sighed in relief when he found the bundle of clothing. Careful not to make any noise, he removed the rags they’d given him and pulled on the avian garments. The shirt fit decently, but the pants were too long and he had no use for the tail sleeve. He pulled the extra material inside and tucked it down his right pant leg to keep it out of the way. He gingerly sat against the wall as he pulled on the avian footwear. Where the avian had managed to find a pair of hatchling’s boots, John had no idea, but he was glad for them. Avian feet were a lot longer than their human counterparts, and he couldn’t have moved with any coordination while wearing adult footgear.
He silently shoved his soiled clothing into the corner behind a cluster of heavy containers. John marveled at how his drug-induced dream had turned into reality. He’d struggled to understand why another avian had impersonated Kree in the clearing--especially since the real Kree’s explanation had nothing to do with governments, wars, or conspiracies. He shook his head. Why would anyone risk getting killed to see what I was wearing?
While waiting for Kree to return, John went over his options should the avian fail to reappear. His options weren’t good. He had no way to navigate the corridors without raising an alarm. Even if he did manage to get out undetected, he had no idea how he would get off the planet and link up with the Firestorm. He needed Kree, and while being totally reliant on this
mysterious alien made him nervous, he was glad for the opportunity to actively work for his own freedom.
Adrenaline surged through his veins as the door slid open. He squeezed his body behind the last of the shelving units and held his breath as an avian flipped on the light source and began to scan the shelves. The avian slowly shuffled closer to him, wrinkling his nostrils as he searched for some item. John was positive the avian could hear his heart echoing throughout the small room, it was beating so loud. Obviously aware of the odor, the avian stopped his search and began to scan the room for the source of the foul smell.
John closed his eyes and waited for the avian to discover him and raise the alarm. He almost fainted when the door opened again and Kree entered. The avian turned back to address the newcomer and asked, “Can you smell that?”
Kree’s eyes widened, but he covered his surprise with a quick response, “Yes. Trillip thinks some vermin got in and died behind one of the canisters. He sent me to deal with it.”
“Ah,” the other avian replied. “I’ll just grab these coils and let you get to work.” He grabbed some small canisters off an upper shelf and squeezed past Kree into the corridor. “I’m glad I don’t have to deal with that guano,” he said.
Kree shrugged. “Yes, the glamorous life of a cart boy.” He winked at the avian. “Still, it’s better than cleaning out the latrines.”
The other avian laughed and moved as Kree shuffled further into the closet.
“Human?” he whispered. “Human, where are you?”
John stepped out from behind the shelves and said, “That was close.” He stared intently at Kree. “You did a great job, thinking up that excuse.”
Kree’s eyes widened again and he took a few steps closer to John. “You, you understand my language?” he asked, slipping into his native tongue.