From the Torment of Dreams

by Iain McKinnon

  “Hang on,” Jackson said with a forced calmness.

  Mornan screamed out, “They're both going to hit us!”

  Jackson fired up the thrusters veering the escape pod away from the asteroid. The pack of missiles' speed and inadequate manoeuvrability meant that they could not match the slower craft's turn. The impact and resulting explosion ripped the asteroid apart.

  Jackson pointed the nose of his craft for the planet below. The pod needed fuel for a controlled descent into the atmosphere otherwise it would burn up, but right now they needed fuel to outrun the hurtling chunks of meteorite.

  He hit the ignition, lighting a trail of fuel from their rockets.

  The fuel gauge slipped lower and lower as its energy burnt off into space.

  A warning light came on followed by a pre-programmed fuel shut-off. The ship stopped accelerating and coasted.

  “They've hit us!” Mornan squealed.

  Lumps of stone connected with the rear of the craft but their relative speed was too slow to cause any major damage, Jackson breathed a sigh of relief, in only a few minutes they would be on re-entry and safe.

  “We made it,” in his disbelief Mornan repeated himself, “We made it.”

  His face broke out in a smile, “We fuckin' made it!”

  The life pods computer beeped a warning. Both Jackson and Mornan stared down at the console. A new set of blips lit up the monitor. A second group of missiles had been launched from the escort.

  “It's OK, “Jackson tried to reassure Mornan, “They'll burn up in the upper atmosphere before they intercept... I hope.”

  Jackson ran through their projected landing site co-ordinates. The computers could only give a rough estimate of the touch-down site but it looked like there was a seventy percent chance it be dry land.

  Jackson thought, “No point worrying about that just yet, we might not get that far,” and neglected to tell his comrades about his findings.

  The missiles were still closing in as the escape pod started its penetration of the planet's atmosphere.

  Unlike the escape pod though, they were unprotected against the inferno that pressed around them.

  Almost simultaneously all six missiles exploded. Their terminal combustion reached out, grasping at their target.

  The detonation had been too close. The shock wave swiped at the battered life pod.

  Pieces of its protective shielding spun off, burning like shooting stars.

  The escape craft plummeted uncontrollably.

  It shuddered as it cut into the resisting atmosphere. Ever increasing molecules of air smacked into the pod with its descent, impacting with such ferocity that the skin of the ship glowed white-hot as they vaporised. The friction was steadily eating away at its protective tiles.

  Jackson doggedly held onto the thrusters control stick. As the G force built up he pulled taut the muscles in his legs and pelvis, squeezing the blood up into his chest. Next to him Mornan and Lan went limp, knocked unconscious by the forces that tossed their craft.

  Jackson forced out the air in his chest before sucking in a fresh lungful. The cabin around him was becoming distant, the edges of his vision closing in. Unable to resist any longer he too passed out.

  From within its mechanical mind, the escape pod carried out its programming.

  Bursts of the remaining fuel checked the tumbling descent, to prevent the parachutes from being ripped to shreds by a frantic fall the computer ordered ten seconds of thrust.

  The fuel pump buzzed into life, attempting to comply.

  A light blue haze of rocket fuel combustion lit the underside of the craft. Almost as soon as it had started it flickered. The azure jet pulsed to a dirty yellow trying to implement the required burn. The fuel pump sucked hard on the now empty tanks.

  With a final surge the last few drops of energy were spent in a short rush.

  The circuits processed all of the available data. Unable to find a contingency program it continued with its original procedure.

  A small explosion heralded the release of the canopy.

  The sheets billowed out, filled by the thickening air. The sudden, sharp tug jerked at the cables anchoring the chutes. Fifteen G's of pressure wrenched at the flimsy wires.

  The whole craft shivered and trembled against the taut lines.

  The twisting capsule below swung violently, threatening to rip or fold the canopies above.

  In a wild swing, one of the three main chutes collapsed. As if pulled by some unseen hand the undulating ceased.

  The capsule plummeted faster, threatening to shred the remaining canopies.

  The loss of one chute had reduced the pitch and yaw but this remittance in strain was replaced by the extra stress imposed on the remaining two. The life pod hurtled out of the night sky, its last two chutes fat with the thick Neotran air. The on-board computer checked their velocity, it was far in excess of its safety margins but it could do nothing.

  Section 12

  Dust whipped up by mini-cyclones stung hard against unprotected eyes. From a crack in the drab, green skin of the dropship half a dozen ropes uncoiled and fell to earth. With the hiss of nylon against nylon, rucksacks slithered down the ropes to the clearing floor. Even before they had hit the ground the first men in the squad were abseiling downwards. They wore green, hooded overalls with light dots of cream and brown to camouflage them. The camouflage suits billowed and fluttered with the down draft of the dropship's engines.

  Once on the ground the troops lay flat in a circle. Facing into the jungle they trained their weapons on the foliage ahead. As soon as they were in position the next six men rappelled down and so on until the transport had dropped the last of its load.

  Empty, the ship sealed its exit and shot up into the night sky.

  The circle transformed into a geometric progression as every second man rushed into the undergrowth.

  Then the inner circle broke and ran ahead of the first wave.

  From the concealment of the jungle the discarded packs were reeled in like prize barracuda on lines held to their owners.

  They secured their backpacks and checking there was nothing loose to make a noise they moved out.

  Without a word the unit formed up and silently made their way through the dark foliage.

  It took only a few hours for the dozen or so men to walk the ten Kliks to their rendezvous point.

  Zinner waved his hand in the air signalling his men to form a defensive circle. They fanned out in a radius using the trees and natural hollows as cover. There was no sign of their contact. Each man kept a close eye on the jungle ahead, watching and listening for any sound or movement that might signal danger.

  Silently Zinner crawled up to Speg and whispered into his ear, “I don't like this, there's something amiss...”

  Zinner fell silent and peered into the darkness searching for the source of his disquiet. Unable to lock it down he returned his attention back to Speg, “You and Borderman take lead. We're moving out to our alternate pick up point.”

  Speg turned his head to respond with a hushed “Yes, Sir” but instead he let out a shocked, “Fuck!”

  With a ghost-like silence a figure had appeared in the midst of the patrol.

  The sound of hard metal weapons brought to bear now interrupted the soft noise of the midnight forest. The men in the patrol were just as startled by the figure as Speg.

  Impatiently the wraith spoke, “Captain, I'm your guide. You will follow.”

  The machine-gun she cradled in her arms looked menacingly big held next to such a small body.

  “What's the code word,” Zinner demanded.

  Even with a dozen rifles trained on her she remained aloof, “Sleeping queen.”

  The girl turned without waiting for an acknowledgement

  “Don't you want to know ours?” Speg asked sheepishly.

  “If I didn't know who you were, you wouldn't be alive to ask.”

  Speg looked at Zinner for approval.

  “Follow.
It will be dawn soon,” the girl whispered and as a parting shot she added, “Quietly.”

  Zinner raised his left hand in the air, clenching it then swirled his hand round. Obeying the order his men followed the disappearing girl. Her movements carried the grace of a dancer, powerful yet precisely controlled. Most surprisingly of all was the total lack of sound, not even a whisper. It was a dent not only to their pride but also to security that they had not detected the girl. Most of the men felt it was a personal insult to their skills but Speg saw it differently; It reminded him whose territory they were in. That she had slipped unseen into the midst of a Bavashee patrol was astonishing. That not even Zinner had spotted her was close to miraculous.

  Morning was breaking as they entered the guerrilla camp. Despite the early hour a sizeable welcome committee had assembled.

  The atmosphere was informal but serious, this was no soft-bellied rear echelon station.

  Walking towards Zinner came a ragged man in his late thirties, the rifle in his hand like an extension of his body. The way he strolled, the light footfalls and the predatory stare told of a life in combat.

  Here were people Zinner could understand and respect.

  “Your men can pitch their stuff, in the bunker if you prefer, or you can camp out, but I want satellite invisibility at all times. Captain Zinner, you're with me.”

  The two men marched into an overgrowth-submerged installation.

  “What was this place?” inquired Zinner as he marvelled at the obvious antiquity of the bunker that served as the Wadens' head quarters.

  “As far as we can tell it was one of the old terra-forming bunkers. One of the first generation, I'd say by the construction. Reckon it must have been abandoned about the time of the Armageddon wars,” replied the rebel leader.

  “That makes it two thousand years old?”

  “About that. Back then things were built to last.”

  “I know,” Zinner more than most was aware of that fact.

  They walked deeper into the complex. A few lonely lanterns did an inadequate job of lighting the dark musty passages. The ground underfoot was a soft mulch of debris home to innumerable scurrying creatures.

  Here and there were soldiers in junk hooches. Supply crates piled into makeshift furniture. Boxes formed walls, chairs, tables and even beds, all the home comforts. Zinner noticed one bunk adorned with an enormous poster. The shiny gloss finish looked fresh and well-cherished. The bright colours contrasted sharply with the drab surroundings. Posing in the picture was a busty blonde, her eyes beckoning the voyeur lustily. She promised the ultimate seduction and no doubt she provided it every night in the dreams of half the men here.

  Deeper underground they went. Deeper passed rooms full of supplies and rotting ductwork until finally they turned into a well-lit and busy room.

  “Ops centre. Over there's the intelligence maps of Karo, for satellite reports I suggest contacting your own people. We're due a recon' report later this morning. Your liaison is that man there at the radio. Your men are excused active duty. Lieutenant Cope will advise you as to when and where your advisers will be needed.”

  The Waden commander's tone told Zinner exactly what he thought, “These men have been fighting a guerrilla war for decades what could these Bavashee possibly teach them?”

  “That will be all, Captain,” the rebel leader dismissed Zinner.

  Zinner saluted to acknowledge but his gesture went without the customary response. Instead the guerrilla commander turned without acknowledgement and walked off down the way he came. It was as if Zinner were invisible.

  “I'm Cope,” Zinner turned to see that his appointed liaison officer had come to greet him.

  The man's voice was soft and his tone carried a lilting quality that brought out the best in his strong Waden accent.

  “Don't take any notice of Captain Orr, he's always a sour-faced bastard.”

  Zinner was surprised by the man's apology. His counterpart was unfriendly and curt but that was the norm in Zinner's military upbringing.

  “Captain Carl Zinner,” he introduced himself.

  “John Cope,” the liaison officer replied.

  “You been active long?” asked Zinner looking round the busy room.

  Cope had hoped for a conversation but the Terran officer was as cold as his own.

  Still, he thought, “I don't have to like him, just take orders.”

  “Difficult to say,” Cope replied.

  “What do you mean?” Zinner was puzzled. Surely such a seasoned fighter as Cope could remember?

  “These men were fighting long before the rest of Neotra elected President Onodera. I can remember throwing stones at Neotran jeeps, collecting bottles for the older boys to make petrol bombs, and all before I could write my own name,”

  Zinner looked round at the rest of the staff in the room.

  “Born for war,” he said having measured the rest of the ops centre's occupants.

  “Raised by it you might say,” Cope elaborated, “Oh, there are a few sympathisers among our ranks, but most of us come from Waden. We're nationalists. None of us here want to be part of the Neotran regime,”

  Cope paused for a moment, “When you look into the history of it, it's all your fault.”

  Zinner was confused, “I'm not following you, Lieutenant.”

  “A hundred and fifty odd years ago, before the Terran Alliance arrived, we weren't the dumb savages you might like to imagine. We had our own countries, governments, culture. When you arrived you imposed your rule over all of us equally,” Cope swept his hand over the map of Neotra on the ops' room wall to demonstrate, “We were all under the same colonial rule. When you handed power over to the Neotran regime they carried on where you left off,

  “The schools were forbidden to teach our native language and the histories we were taught were that of an illustrious Terran past, not our own,

  “Eventually you allowed us democracy, the freedom to choose a planetary president,” Cope lowered his voice as if about to tell a secret, “But in their inauguration ceremony they still had to declare loyalty to the Alliance.

  “And anyway,” Copes tone raised back to it's normal level of exuberance, “Most of the government positions are held by families of good Terran stock and the whole system is geared to favour Terran acquiescence.”

  “I'm not in a position to open a dialogue about Terran policy,” Zinner didn't wish to get embroiled in the politics of the situation, or the actions of his past, “I appreciate the Wadens have historical reasons to hate the Alliance, but we're not the oppressors now.”

  Zinner knew his history better than most because he'd been party to much of it. In the days of the Recovery, ships from Mother Earth rediscovered her colonies and she re-assimilated those lost daughters too weak to resist.

  But Earth's salvation from the dark ages was not always appreciated. Zinner had found himself being sent to suppress uprising after uprising.

  “You know where you went wrong?” Cope asked not waiting for an answer, “Not slackening your grip, or helping build up a Neotran military.”

  Waving a finger as if to chastise Zinner Cope delivered the answer, “Tax. Earth taxes all her colonies and all those rich Terran families in control of things reckon they can get richer without you. They've brought this war betting on a quick victory and higher annual return.”

  “It doesn't make a difference to me,” Zinner declared.

  “There's a big difference between them and us,” Cope paused and pointed at Zinner, “And even you.”

  “We're fighting to preserve our way of life, our freedom. They're fighting a war with other peoples lives, and you…” Cope looked Zinner in the eye, “you're fighting because you're told to.”

  Zinner smiled, “It goes deeper than that.”

  “Well whatever your reason the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Ominously Cope added, “For now.”

  Zinner pondered to himself, “Given the promise of independence these guys'll turn ag
ainst anyone.”

  The Wadens, like many other ethnic groups had the provocation and the popular support to start an insurgence.

  So far only the Wadens had had the will to start an armed revolt on Neotra. Zinner knew where and when the Waden nationalist dreams had been born. He'd helped quench their first rebellion.

  “Best keep that one from our hosts,” Zinner reminded himself.

  Here were a band of freedom fighters motivated by the indomitable need to liberate their homeland. Just one ill-chosen phrase could remind these new-found allies of the Terran tyranny that had incarcerated their nation in the first place.

  It was a dangerous partnership Zinner found himself in.

  “It's a partnership born out of necessity and convenience,” he surmised, “it could quite easily break down for the same reasons.”

  Section 13

  A crowd gathered around the twisted and scorched metal. The newcomer pushed her way through to the crater. She was dressed casually having just thrown on what was at hand. Rhea had heard the explosion from her apartment only a few blocks away and had raced to the scene to help any casualties, thinking a bomb had gone off. Rhea was a Doctor at the Bor hospital in the centre of town and in the past few weeks she had experienced her fair share of emergencies. Wounded from the front were being dispersed to many of the rear medical facilities. By the time they arrived their wounds had been treated and generally they were in a stable condition. But more recently aircrew were being brought in. Their injuries were first-hand and far more unpleasant. She was fully prepared to meet with those kinds of horrors at this crater.

  “For God's sake's, get back, woman!” cried a man standing at the edge of the wreckage.

  “I'm a Doctor,” Rhea replied.

  “We'll be lucky if you're needed. That thing hit home with quite a thud,” the man turned to look at the impact crater, “Lucky it didn't hit an apartment block or somt'in.”

  Parachutes still coupled to the wreckage billowed and fluttered in the night wind.

  “Was it manned?” Rhea asked.

  “Don't know for sure,” he now pointed towards a man in the midst of the debris field.