The bag twitched and Nasim jumped backwards.
A soft groan issued out from within the sack.
Tentatively he leaned forward and drawing the zipper down he revealed the man inside.
A mumbled tone departed the man's gore soaked mouth. His skin was drained and translucent.
The hoarse voice muttered again. His dying breath was not calling for a response from Nasim, his words were uttered in delirium.
“Sinner...” the voice croaked.
Nasim sensed his passing and ended the man's empty stare by gently shutting his eyelids.
“Sinner?” Nasim was curious about the man's last word, “Was he the offender? Or was he condemning me?”
Back from where the livestock was Nasim heard the cry of a buzzard. Standing up he walked the few paces to see the sheep pen round the corner. As he cleared the side of the hut Nasim froze.
“Mam? Papa?” he stumbled onward to the corral. The birds scattered at his cry, taking flight with their own disdainful cacophony.
The earth around the brittle, wooden fence was sodden with blood. It trickled, snaking a lazy path down towards the fields.
Nasim's hands trembled as he struggled to open the gate. The post and the latch were slippery, painted with a thick film of macabre filth. Finally he freed the catch and throwing the gate open, collapsed among the corpses. A salty tear rolled onto his trembling lips. Before him, cleaved in two, were his family and friends, their faces coated with a sheen of blood and the twisted contortions of pain. The bodies swarmed with a thick cloud of fat, black flies. Nasim's sobs quickly rose melding into the insects' harsh buzzing to form the sound of a scorched soul.
Night had set in by the time Nasim lit the funeral pyre. He had spent the day gathering the wood and preparing. One at a time he had heaved the lifeless corpses on top of the unlit pyre; each dead face sparking a barrage of memories.
Nasim sat in front of the blaze his whole body caked in the blood of his kin. He hadn't eaten all day but the grief kept away his hunger.
He started swaying in the draught caused by the bonfire.
Closing his eyes to the warmth of the flames he disappeared from this world to bid his good-byes.
He wrapped his long green cloak in a swirl around his body and floated up into a thick mist.
The first form he saw he didn't recognise.
“Who are you?” Nasim asked.
The man was dressed in a manner he had never seen before. A warm, red top and a pair of loose fitting, grey trousers. The eyes showed how lost and confused he was. Then it dawned on him that he did recognised the stranger. Nasim placed his hands on the man's shoulders.
“It's all right,” Nasim assured him, “Just follow them,” he pointed to a group standing by what looked like a tunnel through the mist.
“He's not human. I tried to save...” the man paused and looked around. “Them,” he said as he gazed at the people by the entrance.
“I understand, but it's all right to go.” Nasim started ushering the soldier towards the others.
Rulk looked back and stopped as if he had forgotten something. Then he turned and walked compliantly through the tunnel.
The morning sun stirred Nasim from his slumber. The fire in front of him had died to warm glowing embers. He picked himself up and wearily made his way to one of the troughs. Unwilling to plunge his whole head into the cold water he scooped a handful over his face.
His eyes shot open and he shuddered from the shock of the cold water.
The sparse, wispy clouds floating high above him predicted it would be a good day for his journey.
There was no way he could manage the crops and the stock alone, not that he would want to stay.
There was nothing of any value in the village, only hollow mementos of the life he'd had yesterday. Nasim packed what he needed to survive and wrapped these scant possessions into a roll of cloth that would also serve as his bed. Tying the ends together, he slung it across his back.
Nasim had been chosen at an age before he could remember, at the shaman's behest, to be educated in the ways of the esoteric. He had learnt to extend his perception and interpret omens. He had been taught the skills of a Medicine Man to ward off demons and illness. But none of that had helped the villagers. Now there was no one alive to care for, but he still had to serve as their protector. He still had a duty to them.
Before setting off he untethered the remaining animals to let them roam free. He left the empty village, walking westwards towards the wide river that flowed from the high peaks. There was no reason behind his choice, just trust in his intuition.
“There it is,” Speg said to Zinner.
“Mendus. Population one hundred and seventy thousand. On the equator and in the shadow of the Alak mountain range. Ideal position for a launch site.”
The city lay in blackout but the powered armour's starlight cameras enhanced the image on their screens.
Zinner crawled back down the slope to rejoin the rest of the platoon.
“Over that hill about ten Kliks away is Mendus,” Zinner announced to his men, “From here on in it's line of sight for us and the enemy.”
The sky behind Zinner lit up with the trail of a rocket. A low rumble echoed around the hillside as the missile sped into the heavens and disappeared into space.
“Although our ships are far superior to anything the Neotrans have we are still vulnerable. The Neotrans' industrial might can supply hundreds of missiles and orbital mines each day. If they can put enough of those munitions into orbit they will win by sheer numbers. Quantity has a certain quality,” Zinner's briefing was punctuated by another missile launch from the town, “If we can blind the Neotrans by taking out their control centre they will be temporarily paralysed. With a clear window of opportunity our cruisers can destroy the launch sites, radar stations and factories that threaten us.”
“The Neotrans will have the base heavily guarded, so how are we to get in?” asked Hutch.
“Getting in is not the difficult part. It's the timing that will be crucial. We have to destroy the radar base close enough to the attack that the Neotrans don't have time to switch to back-ups. If we leave it too late it will allow them to spot our ships coming in giving them time to muster a defence.”
Zinner looked around the gully they were standing in. It provided a good amount of cover.
“Very defensible,” he thought.
“OK, perimeter guards take up position, we'll camp here overnight.” Zinner ordered, “Section leaders, report in for briefing on tomorrow's action. The rest of you, weapons checks and down time.”
The clouds glowed a warm red, a reflection from another rocket's engines.
“This time tomorrow night,” thought Zinner, “the sky will be lit up by my Bavashee.”
Section 6
“Christoph Jackson,”
“Where were you based?” the shadow from the interrogator blocked the glaring light for an instant.
“Noblac,” the bindings around Jackson's wrists bit deeply. His fingers were numb. He was sure that was significant, something to do with circulation but he couldn't gather his thoughts.
“Noblac?” spit sprayed from his interrogator's mouth onto Jackson's swollen face, “Noblac where?”
“Can't think... think straight,” he stammered.
“Where!” a fist struck Jackson's stomach.
The blow knocked the wind from his chest.
“Greda... the...” he gasped trying to get the words out.
“The Southern Hemisphere. I don't know any more,” his voice trailed off, “I'm just a Navigator.”
Jackson found it surprisingly easy to lie, they all removed their insignia before surrendering hoping it would stall the interrogations. But lying about his rank meant he had to think before giving an answer, fearful he might contradict his untruth. And lying had meant that his crew had to endure the same torture.
“How many ships were in your unit?”
He tried to swallow
with a dry mouth, “I... I don't know.”
Jackson thought, “If in doubt, claim ignorance.”
A clenched fist impacted with Jackson's jaw. The solid slug knocked him to the floor taking his chair with him. His head smacked against the ground first sending a shockwave through his skull, down his spine and into his shoulders. Blood surged from the re-opened cuts around his mouth and dribbled onto the deck.
Still dazed, he was lifted back to the upright position.
“How many ships?” the interrogator repeated.
His head pounded and his muscles were stiff and raw.
“Please stop,” Jackson mustered from his dry throat.
Tears stung his cracked skin as they mingled with fresh blood.
“How many?” again the fist hammered across Jackson's face. This time the chair tottered but was steadied by one of the assailant's colleagues.
“I don't know, four maybe five, I can't remember.”
When the pain from the beatings became too much to bear he fed them as much truth as was safe.
Each of these inquisitions mete out punishment for right or wrong answers and Jackson wondered if this wasn't to extract information but to exact vengeance. He knew that the real work of obtaining useful intelligence would be far more cunning and much less obvious.
“Who is your commanding officer?” barked the inquisitor.
“I can't remember his name, I've only just been drafted. I don't know anything, I'm just a navigator.”
The door to the storage locker swung open. Jackson's limp body was tossed inside and the guards hauled out another victim.
Lan's uncertain struggle was a modest attempt to protect his injured ribs and shoulder without being disobedient. He panted out an attempt to identify himself, “Aughn Augh... Ah oh...”
Through the pain of his vacuum scorched lungs and ruptured eardrums he tried again, “uha auhua.”
“Shut the fuck up!” a guard punched Lan in the ribs and dragged him away.
Jackson curled into the foetal position and tried not to move.
He lay there and listened to the guard's footfalls and Lan's indecipherable dialogue until they faded.
“Shen,” Jackson croaked, “you awake?”
“Yeah.”
Jackson's eyes were narrow slits behind purple swollen eyes.
“Keep your voice down!” he nodded at the ceiling, “There's a mic.” Jackson rubbed his wrists to ease the pain from his bindings. He brought his thumb up to his nose and with the nail he hooked out a wad of congealed blood.
“Where's your ring?” Shen asked.
Jackson smoothed over the depression left by the absent band, “Those bastards took it the moment we got inside the interrogation room.”
“Don't worry about that now, how do we get out of here!” whispered Mornan.
“You got a plan?” Shen asked.
“Not yet, just a few observations.”
“What use is that?”
“Shut up, Mornan,” Shen spat out, “what have you spotted Jackson?”
“For one listen. What do you hear?”
“Nothing,” Shen shook her head.
“From the lack of engine noise the ship must be coasting to conserve fuel. They'll be using the gravity of various planets and planetoids to get them back to Neotra,”
“So?” whined Mornan.
“Work it out, dummy!” Shen cut in, “There's not a lot out here, which means it's going to take a long time to get back to Neotra. The longer the trip back, the longer we'll be with these sadistic bastards.”
“They might get refuelled,” Mornan offered.
“They might, but if they had spare ships why didn't they send them to protect the Berenices?” Jackson spat out a lump of blood and phlegm, “No I think we should plan for the worst.”
Jackson looked around the cell from between his bruised and puffy eyelids, “No way out except the door, and that opens from the outside.”
“Even if we could get out of here there's nowhere to go,” protested Shen.
“Not until we get closer to Neotra,” acknowledged Jackson.
Mornan fidgeted nervously, “How do you know it's going to Neotra, for all we know it could be going straight back to Earth!”
“Mornan,” Jackson chastised, “how long do you figure it would take to get to Earth using gravity wells? Ten, twenty thousand years?”
“Jackson's got a point,” said Shen, “the closest port for the Terrans is back on Neotra at Veruct.”
“Shhh!” Jackson ordered.
From outside the cell he could hear crewmembers passing. He pressed his ear against the door trying to pick out conversation.
“What they saying?” whispered Mornan.
“Can't tell,” Jackson was puzzled, “it's a different language.”
“Special forces use secret languages,” added Mornan trying to be helpful.
“But this is just an escort craft. There's no need for such a high level of security on a ship of this sort,” Jackson reasoned, “They must be from one of the older colonies still loyal to Earth.”
Jackson's grandparents were among the many miners who came to Greda at the start of the mineral rush so he could trace his lineage back to the mother world. So many settlers from Earth's solar system came that even now the population still carried the Sol accent.
“We'll not get any sympathy from our captors. Our best chance to escape would be when we're being transferred to a prisoner containment facility,” said Jackson.
“When will that be?” asked Mornan.
“Could be months if we're on a gravity well approach,” Shen pointed out.
“Might be sooner if they do send a fuel tanker. Until we find our chance it's a matter of holding on and trying to conserve as much strength as possible.”
Lan found his hands and feet tied to the chair he sat in. Then his consciousness activated.
Pain.
While he had been unconscious his nerves had lain dormant, but now his head pounded with the circulation of blood. Each breath was a torment behind his bruised and broken ribs. His shoulder sent sharp waves of agony coursing through him with the smallest of movements. The familiar knot in his stomach from lack of food was almost a relief. He squinted at the bright light before him. An attempt to focus only brought a sense of giddiness and nausea.
“Where am I?” questioning his locality Lan ran through all that he remembered.
“I was sucked down a corridor on the Berenices. I climbed into an escape module and passed out. I think I must have pressed the release switch. I can recall being numb and tired,” his memory was blurred, “There was a man's face, did I dream that? It was all pretty fuzzy. Bright lights and a smell? It was a husky odour like bitter chocolate. Burnt chocolate. No! Coffee it was coffee!”
Lan suddenly became aware that there was someone else in the room. Had a subtle movement alerted him or was his mind clearing? Either way he could feel a presence.
Suddenly a heavy blow landed across Lan's back. A billowing wave of pain bolted through him. The shock battered air from his lungs inducing a wheezing fit. Rasping breaths scorched his chest. His attempts to shallow his breathing were useless. The pain from his shoulder wrenched more gasps from him. A crimson hue flushed his face as blood and phlegm rose boiling over in a dry vomit. A sickening whoop spewed from deep inside a fluid filled throat. His head started to swim from the insufficient oxygen.
As consciousness slipped away he glimpsed a man standing in front of him. The man was watching Lan choke to death. He was staring a scowl firmly etched on his face. His gaze showed no pity or mercy towards his captive; merely hate.
Section 7
The blinds over the window broke the light into long golden strips. Their passage across the room was marked by small flecks of dust illuminated against the dark interior of the office. The streams of light cut across the opposite wall magnifying the colours of their surroundings.
General Weston's computer screen caught a stre
ak of glare from the sun that blanched out the information. He stood up, only then realising how hunched his posture had become. Taking a deep breath he put his hands to the base of his spine and stretched back his shoulders. In the same motion he pushed his chin up, and with a flick of his neck he popped the joints in his vertebrae. Weston pushed out the breath he'd been holding and walked over to the window. The dull morning clouds had been blown away and golden sun shone down on Veruct. Weston pulled the blinds shut and returned to his desk. His short break had energised him somewhat and he returned to his work revitalised. The real Fort Veruct lay outside his window but the General was more interested in the simulated version on his computer screen. The sprawling complex covered a few square Kliks incorporating the old town of Veruct. The settlement had been under the watchful eye of the Terran Alliance for over a hundred years, since the fall of the last Adrilus Prince. Veruct considered itself a little piece of Earth and legally it was. The Alliance had leased it as a safe port during one of the more co-operative periods in history.
On Weston's map the River Ome snaked its way in aqua blue along one side of the town. The waterway supplied the abandoned farmland around the base, the fields now sown with land mines instead of wheat. Panning back from the base defences Weston brought the highlands in the South into view. It was these mountains that fed the clear waters of the Ome.
Beyond the fields and mountains far from Veruct were the front lines.
Large red blotches like open sores encircled the spaceport.
These were the fire bases that defended Veruct. A chain of fortified positions serving as fuel dumps for men, ammunition and equipment. Weston's readout showed lines of supply radiating out from Veruct servicing the fortifications.
“With the loss of the Berenices those supplies will dry up and wither. That wall will deteriorate to little more than a picket fence,” Weston observed.
The red of the fire bases extended an overlapping shield portrayed on Weston's map as arcs of pink. Behind the pink lines, the extent of the bases' artillery range, were networks of trenches where the bulk of Weston's army huddled for safety.
From the Torment of Dreams Page 6