From the Torment of Dreams

by Iain McKinnon

  “Area secure, Sir!” Rulk eagerly reported.

  It was obvious they knew there was no threat as both men had removed their helmets.

  Zinner returned the corporal's salute. Rulk had overseen the herding and confinement of the villagers. It had been an easy task in their powered armour to repress what little resistance was offered.

  Zinner had deliberately set his newbies about preparing the LZ. It had been his first opportunity to see them in action, albeit a meagre one. Even a squad of cadets should have been able to set up communications and pacify the area. Rulk was a good Section Leader from what Zinner had read. But he was a recent transfer and Zinner had no idea of his competence. He hadn't been in any engagements with the Bavashee and his instinct to help the stricken soldier during the drop rather than considering the squad made Zinner wary of trusting him. That had to change.

  “Corporal Rulk, we break LZ at one forty three mission time: recall the perimeter guards and get the men ready to move out. Set Yeng and Borderman on point and inform Sergeant Speg he's to send a detail to bury the drop shells,” Zinner started to walk towards the microwave uplink, “Oh and Corporal, execute the villagers.”

  “Sir... Pardon Sir, what did you say about the villagers?” asked Rulk, stunned by the order.

  “Execute them.”

  “Why?”

  “They may reveal our presence to Neotran forces after we have left. We can't take that risk,” answered Zinner.

  “But Sir, surely that's highly unlikely?”

  Zinner turned and faced Rulk, “It may be unlikely but it is still a possibility. You're not just gambling with your own life here Corporal Rulk or the lives of our men. We have a mission to complete that could carry with it the fate of this war. Now likely or not it is still a possibility and one I want removed. Do I make myself clear Corporal?”

  “Ah... Yeah... I...,” Rulk stammered, his gaze flitting between Zinner and the villagers.

  Zinner now stood square to the flustered soldier and stared at him with child-like deep blue eyes. His expression was not one of anger, more like the innocence of a boy who had unknowingly done something wrong.

  “When you were transferred to this unit I was assured that you were an outstanding soldier. How many orders under your last commander didn't you understand?”

  Rulk composed himself and straightened his posture as he addressed his superior, “Sir, with all due respect, executing the prisoners is a violation of not only the Borlin Charter but also human decency. Sir.”

  Although the rest of the squad were preparing their equipment, those that were within earshot had developed an interest.

  “Corporal, decent human beings do not make war upon each other. You are not here to philosophise on social morality. You are a soldier. You follow orders, you fight and you die,” Zinner's pupils had shrunk and the muscles in his face had lost their relaxed composure.

  “Sir, I cannot follow your order,” seeing an aggression sweep over his commander Rulk suddenly became aware of his short shallow breathing. He swallowed in a dry mouth full of air and tried hard to suppress his fear.

  Zinner suddenly snapped back to military manner, “I understand your concerns and I respect the strength and conviction behind them, but as I'm sure you will agree on a mission such as this I cannot afford to work with anyone I'm not one hundred percent comfortable with.”

  Rulk felt the tension diffuse, “Yes, Sir.”

  “When we move out Corporal, you are to remain here with the prisoners until a suitable transportation can be arranged. I will, however, note this incident on your record. Is that clear soldier?”

  “Yes, Sir!”

  “Dismissed.”

  The corporal saluted and marched over to a group of soldiers who were assembling their kit and cleaning their armour.

  Zinner walked casually over to the captive peasants. Huddled in a sheep pen, the dozen or so men, women and children watched the invaders in silent terror. The reek of dung assaulted Zinner's augmented sense of smell.

  “They're a dirty lot, unwashed, unkempt, animals. But these uneducated savages could turn the mission sour. One word to the right person with a transmitter and the missile base would be alerted,” Zinner reasoned to himself, “Mongrels, the lot of them.”

  He raised an armour-clad forearm and pointed the inbuilt focused sonic generator at the rabble. His mind sent the one word command through his soft link into the suit's computer.

  “Fire!”

  A red light on the heads up display flickered on and changed to green.

  The green light blinked as Zinner sprayed the helpless villagers with the invisible Gatling gun.

  The concentrated sound ripped into their flesh as easily as bullets. The intense waves separating skin from tissue, tissue from muscles, muscles from bone. Sweeping the weapon through the corral Zinner sliced the villagers apart. The cries of the dying villagers suppressed by the heavy, inaudible presence of this devastating weapon.

  Rulk feeling the oscillator hum into life, swung round in time to see the last of the bodies blown apart.

  He screamed and ran forward in a vain attempt to save the villagers.

  Zinner was turning about, happy with his work, as Rulk slammed into him.

  “No!” Rulk cried as both he and Zinner tumbled to the ground. The force of their collision stunned both men momentarily but Zinner's instincts automatically produced retaliation.

  An angry flail brought Zinner's arm pounding down on Rulk's chest. Metal clanged against metal and the camouflage shimmered from the collision. But neither man was injured through their protective garb. Zinner rolled over on top of Rulk who was still being pinned by the chest. Zinner's right hand moved to grasp his knife. His hand had just grabbed the hilt when Rulk brought an arm and a leg round levering Zinner off.

  Zinner sprung up from the tumble, knife unsheathed the blade glinting as he flipped the weapon around. Blade facing down it was now positioned in front of his face just below his eye line. His left hand almost directly behind his right he took up a fighting stance.

  Rulk had misjudged Zinner's reactions and was in full lunge as Zinner readied himself.

  A gauntlet-encased fist flew out at Zinner. Zinners whole body pivoted on his right leg away from the punch. As he did so his left hand pushed out against the elbow joint of Rulk's suit knocking him off balance. In a simultaneous action the knife curved across Rulk's unprotected face. The edge slashed deeply into the flesh. The rent travelling from behind and through the ear sliced the mastic muscle and slashing through the cheek down deep into Rulk's throat.

  Blood cascaded from the wound and Rulk fell to the ground carried by the momentum of his punch.

  Zinner sat atop of Rulk as he lay writhing in agony. He was bleeding to death with alarming speed.

  “I'm a man of honour, Corporal,” he glanced over to the corpses of the slaughtered villagers.

  “You will remain with the prisoners,” Zinner yanked off Rulk's dog tags, “We'll send for an evac' to retrieve your body.”

  “So they have something to bury,” Zinner stood up and walked off in search of a rag to clean his knife.

  “Trooper!” Zinner bellowed to one of the replacements in his unit. “Place Corporal Rulk in a body bag,”

  “Yes, Sir,” the grunt rushed over to Rulk.

  Rulk gurgled as breath and blood hissed from the gaping wound in his neck.

  “Sir?” the soldier called after Captain Zinner, “Sir, he's still alive.”

  Zinner stopped in his tracks.

  “Sir. Bagging him now, Sir.”

  Zinner walked on.

  Section 4

  A read-out announced a spark of life from the silent hulk ahead. Jackson studied the energy pattern for a moment.

  “It's too weak to be a missile launch. What could it be?” Jackson pondered.

  “Lupus Alpha this is Lupus Beta,” crackled Baxsell's voice over the radio, “Jackson why are you changing course?”

  “I'v
e picked up a signal, could be something. Best I check it out.”

  Jackson's old border patrol craft continued on its heading. There was a sharp spike in the read-outs as a miss-shaped object was ejected from the Coma Berenices to spin off into space. The tracking computers jumped as a distress beacon flared on the screens.

  Jackson examined the data coming in.

  “This is Jackson, looks like a life pod. I'm going to retrieve it, we might get a pleasant surprise.”

  Jackson reasoned to himself, “If it's an officer or a well placed member of the flight crew the authorities back on Greda could get some useful intelligence. Along with the cargo plundered from the ship's holds that will bring a lot of kudos.”

  Using years of experience Jackson positioned his own craft alongside the tumbling ejection pod.

  Lupus Alpha had been specifically designed as a border patrol craft. Her primary function before the war was customs searches. Docking with unco-operative vessels was routine, and in a way doing something routine helped centre him. Being an arm of the Neotran government, more closely linked to the police than the military, Jackson had never had to go on a mission knowing he was going to kill someone.

  “Today I intentionally killed five thousand souls. No warning shot across their bows, no command to hold their position, no nothing.” He looked at the life pod read-out on the screen. “In some small way you're my redemption.”

  There was a low metallic crunch as Lupus Alpha accepted the life pod into her hold.

  Jackson summoned his crew over the intercom, “Mornan, Shen, meet me at the weapon lockers. I've just picked up an escape pod. Looks like life signs onboard.”

  “The ship used to feel cramped, it's amazing how much difference getting rid of six people makes,” Mornan commented as he saw Jackson.

  Shen agreed, “The walk to the hold seemed longer than usual.”

  “It's just you're getting old!” Mornan ribbed.

  Like Jackson and the rest of the crew they too had enlisted back on Greda. The majority of the original complement transferred to warships leaving Lupus Alpha with this skeleton crew.

  Shen had stayed to look after “her baby”.

  Mornan hadn't been given a choice.

  “Guess the Navy aren't that desperate yet,” Jackson had thought to himself. Not that he'd ever say that to the boys face.

  He had made a show of shrugging off the rejection but it was obvious it had upset him.

  “You're quiet,” said Mornan as Jackson stopped by the bay door.

  “Just tired. Up most of the night doing the maths for the assault,” Jackson lied.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key, which remained attached to his belt by a dull, metal chain.

  Jackson turned the key in the door of a locker that stood next to the bay entrance.

  “Whoo'ee!” Mornan's shout echoed down the corridor.

  Inside the cabinet there was a neat row of shotguns. Jackson passed one each to Shen and Mornan.

  Mornan snatched at the weapon but Jackson held on.

  “Don't get over-excited Mornan. I don't want to be picking pellets out my ass,” Jackson relinquished his grip, “You got it?”

  Mornan put on his sheepish what have I done wrong look, “Yeah, sure.”

  In a way Jackson could see a lot of himself in the young officer. When he first came on board Jackson watched patiently as Mornan made all the same mistakes he had some eight years previously. Initially the boy had endeared himself to Jackson. He had reminded him of how far he had progressed and how much he took for granted. The problem was Mornan hadn't picked up on the job as quickly as Jackson. He needed to be told things time and time again.

  It wasn't that he was stupid. Mornan would never have passed the exams if he were; he just didn't have any initiative. It was his lack of resourcefulness that wore down Jackson's patience.

  “As I explained when I called you down here, I've just picked up an escape pod,” Jackson said.

  “Whoo'ee!” Mornan whooped again, “We get some face-to-face action!”

  “Quit it, Mornan,” Shen warned, “you're doing my head in!”

  “What?” Mornan shrugged his eyebrows.

  Jackson gave him a hard look.

  “Weapons check,” Jackson said as he passed them their ammunition.

  They both loaded their weapons, slipping the shells into the internal magazine and flipping the safety catch off.

  “You not taking one?” Shen said to Jackson.

  “No, this will do me fine,” he patted the holster at his hip. As the senior officer he carried a side arm and that was more than enough protection as far as Jackson was concerned.

  He locked the gun cabinet door and turned to face his crew.

  “I've got no idea who or what we'll find in there. You two cover me and I'll check the escape pod.

  “I trust your judgement, so if you have to shoot don't take any chances, although I'd prefer to take any survivors alive. They might give us useful information.”

  Jackson flicked off his pistol's safety catch, “Ready?”

  Shen and Mornan both nodded.

  Jackson pulled an emergency torch from the wall next to the locker.

  “Let's go,” he opened the door to the landing bay.

  The outside of the pod was scored from its release and frosted from the cold of space. Other than that it was undamaged. Jackson walked up and gingerly turned the hatch release. There was a small rush of air as the pressure equalised, then all was silent.

  Jackson looked round at Shen and Mornan who were nervously pointing their shotguns at the opening.

  With the screech of raw metal Jackson prised the hatch further open. Through the gloom he could see patches of ice crystals reflecting the sweep of his torch. The escape pod was cold. Scorched with frost from the intense vacuum of dead space. Jackson could feel the heat being sucked from him by the frozen lump of metal. His warm breath pulsed across the beam of his torch in plumes of thick mist.

  “The heating must have broken,” he muttered to himself.

  Peering inside he aimed both his spotlight and pistol. The beam from Jackson's searchlight rambled over the interior until it came to rest on the figure of a half-naked youth.

  “There's a body in here,” Jackson called out.

  Carefully he edged forward keeping his gun pointed at the figure.

  Blood that had splashed freely around the cabin in zero gravity now pitter-pattered its way to the floor. Random splashes of crimson rain dripped onto Jackson, soaking in spots into his uniform and trickling off his gun.

  Stepping close he nudged the man's leg with the tip of his boot.

  There was no response.

  Jackson laid the torch down and crouched beside his prisoner. His left hand now free he felt the side of the man's neck for signs of life.

  “He's got a pulse. Get a med kit over here!” Jackson started to examine the extent of the man's injuries, “Plasma packs and an intravenous.”

  Neither Mornan nor Shen moved.

  Jackson looked up questioningly at them.

  The coiled tension of conflict had dissolved and they both stood with their guns pointing at the ground.

  “He hardly seems worth wasting supplies on,” Mornan gestured towards the unconscious body.

  “We've been at war all of a week and you've already swallowed too much bullshit. Why? Because he's a human being like you or me and if I were in the same situation I'd hope someone would help me.”

  Shen shouldered her firearm and jogged off to retrieve the medical supplies.

  Jackson turned back to his examination.

  “Bullshit humanity!” Jackson thought.

  “I've just killed thousands with the push of a button, where was my humanity twenty minutes ago?” Jackson asked himself, “Maybe in some small way saving one life will ease my conscience. Maybe not, but I have to try.”

  “Agstaff, Lan: Private, Mars Heavy Infantry,” Jackson played with the dog tags as he
read the information, “I hoped we'd picked up one of the command staff what with the escape pod firing from so close to the Control Deck.”

  Captain Baxsell's voice came over the speaker, “And what sort of condition is our captive in?”

  “He's still unconscious and he's got the symptoms of vacuum exposure, frostbite, hypothermia, burst eardrums, he's lost a lot of blood from a shrapnel wound and got a few broken ribs,” Jackson absentmindedly twirled the dog tags, “It's nothing we can't stabilise but we will need to get him to a medical facility. Shen's looking after him in our Med bay.”

  Baxsell asked, “Find anything of interest in the escape pod?”

  Jackson rested the dog tags on the flight consul, “Na, just your standard life raft, once we had the kid in, I jettisoned it.”

  “OK. The first of the salvage teams are about to enter. I'll keep you informed. Lupus Beta out.”

  Jackson leaned forward and switched the screen off. His role in the mission was now that of chaperon. Lupus Alpha had the best sensor equipment and so their job was now sentry duty. It was like being the look-out at a heist. Now Jackson felt like the robber, not the cop.

  He sat back in his chair and took a swig of his coffee. It was hot. Other than that there was no resemblance to coffee.

  “Still, that's nothing new out here,” Jackson thought.

  Somewhere between the coffee bean being processed, freeze-dried, packaged and rehydrated in the coffee machine all of the flavour had been extracted. Jackson picked up a sachet of cream and considered pouring some into his drink. He rejected that idea and tossed the packet back with the rest.

  “Whatever happened to the coffee would undoubtedly have happened to the cream too,” he blew onto the surface of his drink and watched the ripples for a moment.

  Taking a sip from his mug he turned back to the monotonously dull status reports and sensor sweeps.

  The Alliance escort ships made the final preparations for battle.