by Martin Perry
“Yes. It didn't make a difference, the facility name was classified.”
“It does not matter. If he has a number, then he is most likely in the system,” said Charles. “Those things are DNA-encoded. They would not go to the trouble of forging it when they had perfectly good reason to keep him incarcerated. Still, I am enraged that they have classified his location. The charges, now convictions, do not warrant it.”
“Not to mention the trial...”
“No, not to mention the trial, one where we were not given the opportunity to provide evidence,” replied Charles to Kerra.
“I've not told anybody yet. Not Maur, not Marc. Nor Yazram or Thom. It seemed like something we should keep quiet for the time being. We aren't ready to take on the UNAPT... I'm not sure it would be a good idea even if we were,” she said.
“I dislike that you are right, but you are. We need to see what information we can glean. If we launched any kind of retrieval operation – military or otherwise – we would be flying blind.”
“Just like your trainees in the sim suite?” Kerra said.
“Hmm?”
Kerra nodded to the sim, inside of which they could see that some of the recruits had already started to cautiously step away from the plateau and into the wilderness that awaited them.
“Yes, I suppose I should get back to the task at hand. Tell me though Kerra, do you think we will be alright without Champion? I can't help but feel we are only just keeping things together here. I feel as though I might be shirking responsibilities that should be mine.”
“Do you feel like you are truly the captain of this ship?” she asked in response.
“No, I am just its caretaker..”
“Then if all you do is keep things together, you have done the job that Champion asked of you. Give me a hug then go punch some bears,” she said, trying to comfort a man she was not used to supporting emotionally.
He stretched an arm around her shoulder and squeezed her. It was probably supposed to be a fleeting embrace, but Charles, not knowing his own strength, held her tightly.
“We need to talk about Vith too. He has another mission, in the China-Korea Union.”
“Later, we'll talk about Vith later. Have you said anything to Maur yet?” Charles asked, knowing exactly who Vith was but not wishing to deal with the matter.
“No,” Kerra replied. “I'm not sure how to.”
“You should do it soon. Tell Vith I'll talk to him after I finish the training session.”
“Sure,” Kerra said. “See you later.”
Charles turned away from her, flexing his shoulders. He rolled them back and forth as he headed back into the sim. Kerra heard him bark orders to the group inside.
She was alone, an unfamiliar feeling aboard the Jump Cannon now. She spent so much time rushing around, spinning more plates than she felt capable of keeping aloft. There was a panel on the table and she scooped it over and idly tapped away. The door of the sim hissed over, and even the rabble of the training group disappeared. Kerra enjoyed the silence, but reading a broadcast on the panel, moved to one of the spare sims. Inside, she called Dr. Ben Vith; a man that Maur knew nothing about, but who knew a lot about Maur.
Maur himself was much less quiet, now sitting in the dining hall with a few of his new fellow crewmen. Jewlia Ghan Xi, a former korakian prize fighter, was sitting opposite him, as was a large and muscular puran man named Elrik Elsyor. All three had drinks in their hands, the others enjoying a shift break while Maur drowned his sorrows.
“You shouldn't worry,” said Jewlia, “I've done much worse in my time.”
“I blew up a... I'm not even sure what I blew up,” Maur replied.
“It's probably best it stays that way,” Elrik said, sucking back a large mouthful from his tankard. “I've made enough mistakes in my life that I want to forget. Not knowing the facts makes that a lot easier.”
“You've made mistakes Elrik?” Jewlia said sarcastically. “Why, when I saw you bringing up your guts this morning, I had assumed you planned the hangover.”
“Hmm, very good. That's rather incidental,” Elrik said, not rising to the bait.
“Compared to what?” Maur said, intrigued by the man's candour.
The dining room was busy around them. Thom had already come out to tap him on the shoulder and offer condolence. If there were one person that he thought might have applauded him, or at least given a token slow clap, it was Thom. Maybe he had thought that Maur wouldn't have appreciated such mockery, but in truth it would have brought much needed joviality to the situation.
“Compared to the very things that have made me employable on this ship,” Elrik said.
“Your record just pointed towards standard conflict scenarios. Numerous enemy engagements across numerous planets. A couple of them more fucked up than the others but a fairly standard ex-military record all things considered. What do you have to regret?” Maur asked in reply.
“You don't think there is anything to regret in war?” Elrik asked. “I was engaged in those battles because I am good at it, built for it – it doesn't mean it's something I should be proud of. In fact, it certainly isn't something I'm proud of.”
He took another mouthful of his drink, and slowly shook his head as he did. Elrik did not seem disturbed by whatever memories he was recalling. Instead, there was just a look of acceptance on his face, as if he understood that he had done wrong in his life, but that much of it had been necessary.
“You should be proud if your actions saved lives,” Maur said.
“They did, but they cost the lives of others in return. You don't seem to be understanding. Let me give you an example, if that's alright?” said Elrik.
His broad shoulders betrayed his male puran lineage. They, with their dark green skin and stippled, rough patterns running up the sides of their bald heads, were so often physically feeble but more capable of mind. Whenever he looked at a puran man, he usually thought of their women. Pink, smooth skin and almost always beautiful, it was difficult not to. This puran was different though, his chest puffed out with well defined muscle, and his neck was wide with visible veins. Elrik was the result of the puran military programme – a scientific attempt to genetically breed the perfect soldier. The apex of puran military capability, an Apex Soldier. While Maur couldn't quantify this ongoing programme's success overall, they had done a good job with Elrik.
“Go ahead, be my guest,” Maur said, lazily lolling back in his chair, trying to cover up how impressive he found this fellow soldier.
“Yerbrek.” Elrik said bluntly.
“Yerbrek, the complete fucking hell hole?” Maur replied.
“Yes, Yerbrek, the complete fucking hell hole. Also the planet that Pura almost launched a full scale attack upon due to yerbrak political interference in puran ship building enterprises.”
“I remember it,” said Jewlia. “The troubles never came to anything though. The yerbrak politician inciting most of the trouble died during a visit to one of the shipyards.”
“Did he?” Elrik replied.
“Just get to the point Elrik,” Maur said, finishing his drink and slamming the tankard back down onto the table.
“All I know, is that I arranged the death of a man, and he died for no other reason than he wanted to protect his own people's industry. He had harmed no-one, he had stolen from no-one. All he had done was affect the bank balances of people from a planet light-years away from his own.”
“It stopped a war happening, going by what you're implying,” said Jewlia. “If you killed him in favour of the survival of others, numerous others, then there is nothing to regret.”
“I disagree. I do not know how many people I might have saved, but I do know that I was responsible for the death of that one man. I killed him because I was ordered to – not because of self defence. Anybody who does the same should feel regret.”
Jewlia was quiet for a moment, and stared into her empty tankard.
“I think I need another drink if that's the cas
e,” she said, before standing up and walking away over to the kitchen’s bar.
With Jewlia well out of earshot, and Maur still considering Elrik's words, the two enjoyed the silence of each other's company for a moment. The mood had definitely been dampened, although Maur had not that possible. He wondered if the words had been directed at him just as much as they might have been a drunken recollection of the past.
“So, do you think I should regret what happened down there?” Maur asked, eventually.
“Did you set about to kill anybody?” Elrik replied.
“No, but people did die. The ringleader if nobody else. He was just trying to make money too, like your yerbrak,” Maur said, leaning forward.
“But you didn't set about to kill him. It wasn't an assassination, it was an accident. More than that, as I understand it he took his own life?”
“Yes,” answered Maur.
“Then it was his own decision, and you are absolved of any responsibility. In fact, the man you saw die was most likely responsible for the deaths of many others through his narcotics. You did the local community a favour. It is a completely different situation,” Elrik said.
“If you say so.”
Maur wasn't sure he agreed entirely, but couldn't decide if the regret he felt was anything to do with Mitchell, or was in fact related to Kerra, her disappointment and his failure as a soldier.
“Anyway, we have much more important matters at hand. I came to work for this ship because I thought Champion would be back in charge far sooner than now,” Elrik said, yawning mid-sentence.
“You don't like working for Charles?” Maur asked, his worries about the failed mission clearing from his mind thanks to the rapid change of subject.
“I have no problem working for Charles, and Charles has no problem with me working for him. However, Champion evidently had a knack for securing decent work. Right now, we're just keeping our heads above water. I expected to be part of a team whose operations couldn't be taken on by one man, whether he had a body fused with an alien weapon or not. I'm getting bored Maur, I need the action.”
“Aren't you worried you'll just gather up some more regret?” Maur questioned.
“I'm paid to manage that regret, because this is what I do. I never said I wanted to stop being a soldier,” Elrik answered.
“No, I guess you didn't,” Maur replied. “Although you didn't make it very clear.”
“Apologies if I confused you. What is very clear though, is that this ship needs its captain back.”
Chapter Four
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Prison Satellite Soha Aldri floated in isolation, days away from any popular traffic routes or habitable planets. It housed up to fifty-thousand inmates whose meals, safety and air were paid for by their native governments. Owned and operated by the League Detention Corporation, a business whose profits had doubled year on year since its creation, it rested stationary in the sky. Its sum volume amounted to nearly two-million cubic metres, but its jutting, compartmented, and ever changing construction made that an estimate.
League Detention could, at their own expense, move individual detention cells. Blocks big enough to house five thousand could break away from the larger structure and be repositioned depending on the type of criminal currently being housed. Nearly two years into its operation, a riot had broken out in the central ship, the location of the engines and main controls. In response, the prisoners had been herded back into the blocks without discrimination. For two weeks, the ten blocks had operated separately of each other, with fraudsters housed with mass murderers. There had been little consequence for League Detention, who had simply charged their customers a fee for quelling the rebellion. It was all in the contracts.
Her steel hull was jet black, and formed a shadow against the darkness of space. It blocked out the stars behind it and embodied a true abandonment of hope and freedom. It was here, in a cell with only one small light source, that Captain Earnest Champion was sitting with his new cell mate.
“So, did they feed you yesterday?” he asked.
His name was Charles, the irony of which Champion appreciated. His second name was Johnson though, so he went by the moniker of Ceej. He was a young man, human, who had supposedly stabbed a lunark on the streets of Cerfax, a city on Lunarkan. This was, unsurprisingly, a charge which Ceej denied profusely, but Champion had already had to challenge him about a shank he found hidden behind the toilet. When asked, Ceej had simply said it was for his own protection. Champion had never met a man who found him immediately threatening, and so assumed that Ceej was to be watched closely. A paranoid cell mate is, he knew, always more likely to stab you in the middle of the night.
“No. They have said that they will withhold food until I co-operate with the questioning regarding my crew and the Jump Cannon,” Champion replied, rubbing a bruise on his arm, sitting on the edge of his sparse bunk. “It is futile, they will eventually have to deal with a dead man. I will not sell out my people.”
“You sure man?” Ceej said, jittery as ever. “Maybe you should rethink that, you're starting to look pretty fucked up.”
He was right despite his vulgarity. Champion's yellow prison clothing was tattered and burnt; evidence of the physical abuse he had been subject to since his arrival. There had been no trial, although the opposite had been recently reported, and instead he had been bundled into a scout ship in the middle of the night, mere days after his arrest. They had kept him in solitary confinement for the duration of the trip to Soha Aldri. If they knew him better, they wouldn't have expected this to have an affect on his mental state. Champion had spent three months in isolation once during his time in the Northern American Universal Flight Squadrons. His fighter had been downed behind enemy lines. Champion got through that. In comparison, the flight here had been a picnic.
“I am absolutely sure. Tell me, what do you know about Cherie Darvian?” Champion replied.
“Darvian? You mean the big boss?” Ceej asked in reply.
“Yes, Cherie Darvian, the owner of League Detention,” said Champion.
“Not much, I've heard she has been on the satellite for a couple of weeks though. Nobody has seen her,” Ceej responded.
“Yes, I had heard this myself. I can't ever recall seeing an image of her face, despite her position and ever-growing success. You would think that a women of her wealth and notoriety would have her face exposed to the public at some point, wouldn't you?”
“I suppose so,” Ceej said. He had jumped up onto the bunk above now, and was staring up at the blank ceiling, tapping a finger against his forehead. “I've heard she's hot.”
“I've heard that too. I saw a very attractive woman yesterday Ceej,” Champion said.
“You did?” Ceej asked enthusiastically. Champion felt the bunk move when Ceej flipped his body over to listen more intently to the story he was about to tell.
“Yes Ceej, very attractive. She was blonde, perhaps in her early thirties. She was very tall, with smooth, toned legs and the whitest skin I have ever seen. She wore a mask over most of her face – it was made of silver. I saw some of the guards get nervous around her.”
“Why wouldn't they? Difficult to keep your cool around a broad like that!” Ceej replied, his crassness irritating Champion. “Well, besides the mask. That's a little weird.”
“I think there was more to it than that. They bowed to her, showed her respect. She came in to watch my interrogation, and did nothing to stop it as it became more violent. I was fading in and out of consciousness, but I think she might have hit me.”
“You think Cherie Darvian is going to hit one of the prisoners? She'd have to be nuts! She'd lose all of her big contracts!” Ceej exaggerated, it was one of his many character faults.
“That's not true, as well you know. Yes, I do think it was her. I think that Cherie Darvian, the owner of this prison satellite and its parent compan
y, struck me during an interrogation regarding my ship. What do you think that means Ceej?”
Ceej was not going to have time to respond to the question asked of him. A guard was approaching, running an electrified baton along the bars of the cells, immediately electrocuting anybody who had not yet leaped from their metal bunk. Champion and Ceej stood quickly. Despite his excellent levels of physical endurance, he had no desire to endure unnecessary pain. In standing he had winced, splitting open a scarring wound on the back of his legs.
“Wake up, maggots!” shouted the guard, making a cliché of himself. “It's time for weekly processing!”
Champion’s head slumped down, and Ceej responded similarly. The iron gates of their cells slid to the side, the others in the block doing exactly the same, creating a rumbling din of clanging metal. A guard stood at the doors of each of the cells, brandishing their weapons and grins of malice. They ushered the prisoners out of their cells, well aware that they had the upper hand.
The processing was a method of breaking the prisoners as much as it was a way to keep the prison safe. It had been instituted not long after the riot, and had successfully quelled the rebellious urges of the prisoners since. It was barbaric, and were League Detention not quite as well positioned politically then it would not have been permitted. In truth, it was only a set of loopholes introduced by the company’s carefully placed political support that allowed the process to go ahead.
Champion and Ceej were led forward to join part of a larger convoy. From the floor below, shackles rose and clamped around their ankles, chaining them together in a row of twenty or more men. With a sharp smack of his baton the rear guard sent the group on their way towards the processing planet.
It was only from outside of his cell that Champion could see the sheer scale of the facility that he was in. At his location on the bottom storey of the cell block, he could look up on a further ten. The metal grated floors above were occupied by more rows of shuffling feet attached to yellow jumpsuits. Sparks of blue signalled men being shepherded like animals, and yelps from electrified backsides filled the air along with the screams of madmen. The cacophony these cries of pain and insanity created burned in Champion’s ears, and seemed to urge him to dash his head against the rock hard walls.