It was hard to see him clearly; the only source of light being small fires dotted around the crash site.
“Don't know who he is, seems to know his stuff though. Told me to get everyone back. Could be radiation or bombs or stuff like that, might not be too safe. He arrived just after me and started looking for survivors.”
The chutes flapped in the breeze and a bitter gust of wind brought a nauseous smell of burning chemicals to her nostrils. Dotted around the crash site, fires released fumes laden with the foul odour of smouldering plastics. As she trudged over the rubble strewn ground Rhea wondered if maybe there were invisible dangers.
The man turned to fling away another sheet of twisted hull and stopped as he spotted her.
Before he could utter a masculine, “It's no place for a lady,” speech, Rhea justified her presence, “It's OK. I'm a Doctor.”
“It's an orbital vehicle of some sorts,” he said ripping away another piece of the superstructure.
“This should be the cockpit,” he continued, tearing away the pod's fabric to expose a crushed compartment.
From his pocket he pulled a tiny flashlight and shone it inside.
At first there appeared to be only two occupants; the third was obscured by his companions, and a sizeable chunk of oxygen tank pinned him to his seat.
Rhea could now hear sirens over the crackling of flames as assistance found its way to the crash site.
She squeezed past her fellow rescuer so that her torso was inside the craft. Stretching her arm out, she could make contact with the nearest two men. The one in the middle was pinned at the arm by the same fragments of hull that braced the third man so tightly. Rhea listened carefully trying to catch the sounds of breathing coming from the men. It was impossible to hear through the crackling of fires and the slapping of the loose parachutes. She checked the man closest to her for a pulse. It was there; weak but regular. Unable to reach the second occupant's neck she felt for his free arm. Having found it she gently turned it to expose the fleshy underside to her grip.
She turned and called to the rapidly approaching emergency teams, “There are people alive in here!”
He watched her walking towards him. His lust was content to observe the gentle rise and fall of her skirt. Her movement was buffeting it, and as each leg strode forward Lan had a glimpse of an extra inch of thigh.
Her legs were clad in a thick, dark pair of stockings. There was no hint of flesh between the stocking top and skirt hem but that wasn't important.
Lan wasn't getting butterflies in his stomach over some possible sexual encounter. He was in reverence, worshipping the beauty of this Goddess.
His Goddess.
He wanted to hold her, to be inside of her, to be in every part of her. To become one with her.
“Hi, handsome,” Nicola said as she drew to a stop.
Without a word Lan wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tightly.
He felt her soft cheek against his, slightly chilled from the cold spring breeze. He smelt the tang of her shampoo that had left its scent clinging to her hair.
Most satisfying of all he felt her arms hugging him as tightly as his held her.
He pulled back slightly to gaze into her green eyes before planting his lips hard against hers.
Her soft, moist lips threatened to swallow him up as they kissed.
She filled him with joy and lust and desire and passion.
A hollow pain echoed through his mind.
Suddenly she was gone and there was nothing he could do.
A cold fire burned ice straight into his heart.
“Aaahhhh!” Lan screamed out, “Make it stop!”
Lan cried out at the agony. There were lights shining on him, shadows darted against the white. Large, heavy chunks of fuselage clasped the muscles in his right arm taut. Embedded in the back of his left hand was the familiar tubing of a plasma pack.
A face peered down at him, its words lost to his deafness.
Lan saw a large syringe being place into the cannula strapped between his wrist and knuckles.
A large cutting tool started biting into the metal beside him. The vibrations from its teeth aggravated further his already screaming nerves.
Blackness washed over him and again he sank into unconsciousness.
Lan found himself awake in the dark.
His arm had gone numb from her lying on top of it.
There was soft music playing. It was light and airy. There was a slow, eerie rhythm wafting in and out. A light, choral theme carried the main melody. A deep bass guitar murmured a simple line supporting a keyboard.
A harpsichord cut in, dancing the repeat from the chorus, the sound echoing sweetly through the tune.
The overall effect was one of angelic tranquillity.
Nothing could be more apt, as he lay there warm and content he could well have been in heaven.
He snuggled into Nicola's back and felt his arm being pulled around her waist.
Lan revelled in the warm touch of their naked bodies. A profound contentment filled his soul. His life was complete.
All that he longed for, all that he craved was in his arms. He kissed her shoulder and drifted back to sleep.
Section 14
“Good news, Sir?” Colonel Revar questioned.
“The best I've heard so far,” General Weston passed the decoded communiqué to his adjutant.
Weston was unable to contain the excitement in his voice, “The Ptolemy is due to leave Earth within the week,”
“A sure sign High Command are taking this seriously if they're sending our most powerful carrier. What else are they sending?” Revar's eyes scanned the page for more information.
“There are four transports, the Sequaloris, the Dhakos, the Novatian Disciple and the Sovereign Chance. They're being escorted by the cruisers Balas and The Ironclad.”
“Are these figures right?” Revar was obviously surprised at the shear volume of men and equipment Earth was prepared to expend in keeping this colony.
“I see no reason for them to be anything but. I can't believe Earth would sell us out with misinformation,” said the General.
“That's a shit-load of troops,” Revar glanced up embarrassed at his slip in decorum, “Pardon me, Sir,”
Weston smiled at Revar's faux pas, “More importantly High Command have come to a decision as to who should be Theatre Commander.”
“Judging by that smile I'd guess that Admiral Jager will be saluting you from now on. Congratulations...” Revar looked confused. “Er, Sir, how do I address you now?”
“I'm still a General. Apparently Star Marshal is reserved for war time commissions and we're not fighting a war, we're just quelling an uprising.”
“It feels like a war to me, Sir,”
“I'll level with you, Revar,” Weston's posture became more rigid reflecting his concern, “High command don't think we can hold onto Veruct. They're planning for an unassisted planetary assault,”
Weston turned and looked out of his window at the space-port below.
The view always reminded him why he was here, “I could order an evacuation. Add our strength to the task force. But if we lose this beachhead it's going to be a bloody chore making another one. Earth is leaving the final decision up to me, we can stay or we can go.”
Revar saw this as a challenge, “We're in good shape here, Sir. The men are keen to prove their worth. If you give the order Veruct will stand. Alone if needs be, Sir.”
General Weston turned back from watching the activity outside. He retrieved a number of files from his drawer and spread them on his desk for Revar to see. The papers were embossed with the turquoise and gold Terran Alliance eagle emblem.
“They're still making me fight with kid gloves,” Weston tapped at the folders as he spoke, “They send me lists of restricted targets I have to plan around. All because Earth wants to win a hearts and minds campaign.”
Revar could hear the frustration in his commander's voice, “At le
ast the opposition have the same problem. President Onodera has ruled out tactical nuclear strikes on their home soil.”
“It's only public opinion that's restraining him,” Weston said.
Revar tried to reassure his commander, “They know that a nuclear bombardment would have little chance of penetrating our air cover. And an attack of that nature would only harm the civilian population and the ecosystem, so it's in their own best interests to restrict the nuclear option.”
Weston sat down in his chair. Facing his console he started typing, “If we can sway public opinion against their government the political unrest may give us the leverage we need.”
“Onodera's not stupid, he's a politician, he relies on public support for his office. Why would he stoop to the kind of warfare that will alienate his electorate?” asked Revar.
“Colonel, bring me our full dossier on all of the Neotran Chiefs of Staff, and their Heads of Staff. Arrange for a psychological analysis on all of them. Find me one who doesn't care about the voting public.” Turning back towards Revar he continued, “And I'll need our top special operations teams on standby.”
“Can I ask what you're planning, Sir?” said the puzzled Revar.
Weston smiled an insane little smile confirming he had been touched by a revelation, “We'll let Neotra take the gloves off.”
Section 15
There was a smell. A tart antiseptic aroma. It had hung in the air all this time but was only now detectable. Against the scent of the fresh air entering through the open window the disinfectant was harsh and solid.
Lying here for days Jackson had had time to think. Mainly he thought of his wife Kathy back on Greda. An age had passed since he had seen her. Jackson couldn't be sure exactly how long as yet; he had no idea what day it was. Lying in this hospital bed wracked with the pain from his ordeal, all he wanted was to feel her hand in his and to know she was there.
When he left Greda he was almost glad to have escaped her emotional assaults. She had pleaded with him not to go. Misguided notions of immortality had bolstered his patriotism. Had he known what would happen with all its brutality and deprivation, its suffering and hurt, would he have gone?
He didn't think so. Nothing was worth such loss and pain: not his Captaincy, his patriotism or his freedom. He had crossed the thin line between bravery and stupidity.
Jackson winced with pain as he tried to get more comfortable. Patched back together by modern medicine, his recuperating body soaked up the chemicals being fed to it. Slowly the concoction would knit his bones and flesh back together.
Jackson peered over the edge of his pillow.
“What was to be done with the man in the next bed?” he thought looking at Lan.
He alone knew where Lan came from. He could turn Lan in and let him endure another bout of beatings and pointless interrogations, or he could concoct some story to protect him. After all, Lan had saved his life.
From what he knew of the boy, for he was not long out off his teens, he was of no significance to planetary security.
From his actions in their escape Jackson felt he could trust Lan.
Jackson tried again to shift his position but his right leg was heavy and stiff. He looked down to see it encased in a metal scaffolding. Spokes pierced his flesh holding his shin central inside the frame. The thin metal rods had left neat trails of scabs as if they had been scraped into place.
“Nurse?” Jackson croaked. The word was forced and hoarse when it crawled out of Jackson's mouth. The effort to speak had come as a surprise to him, he hadn't realised just how injured he was.
“Ah, we're talking. How do you feel?” said the nurse as she walked over to Jackson's bed.
Jackson tried to raise a, “Sore.” but his dry larynx spasmed at the attempt, making him cough. The fit sucked the air from his lungs turning his face crimson before he could regain control. The nurse came quickly to his aid, propping him up and placing an oval dish under his chin.
“Take your time now,” the nurse said warmly.
Jackson felt like an infant as she wiped the phlegm from his face, the cloth rasped against the deep stubble on his chin. He tried weakly to resist her help but found he had no energy to struggle. As he moved, more of his scabbed-over skin cracked. Much of it had been grated from his body during his ordeal and vast expanses of crusted brown blood capped his injuries.
He took a sip of water from the glass he was offered. Although it was warm it brought welcome relief to his parched mouth. His dry lips stung as the dried salt from his sweat rehydrated and seeped into the cracks of arid flesh.
The liquid eased his throat enough to speak.
“Where am I?” he whispered.
“You're safe,” she reassured him, “you're in hospital.”
“Need to get in touch with my wife, tell her I'm all right.”
“All in good time. Just now you need to rest, build your strength up,” said the nurse cheerfully.
“I have a shot that will help your healing. Now it may make you feel a little groggy.” the nurse explained.
“How long have I been here?” Jackson asked.
“You were brought in a few weeks ago. You've been on medication to help you recover. That's probably what's making you feel a bit fuzzy.”
“What do you mean?” Jackson croaked.
“Well we had a similar conversation yesterday, you were asking about your friends,” The nurse immediately broke eye contact and made to leave.
“Did we all make it?” Jackson asked suddenly aware he hadn't seen Mornan.
Laying him back against the sheets she sidestepped the question, “Rest for now, you still need to build up your strength. If you need anything for the pain just press your buzzer.”
“Now get your head down and rest,” the nurse started preparing a syringe.
“This will help you sleep,” she told Jackson as she injected him with the clear liquid.
Jackson began drifting off even before the nurse had removed the needle.
Section 16
“So what drags you down here? I haven't spoken to you since the service,” said Malek.
Kalim stopped in the narrow corridor to talk with his colleague. It had been just over a week since they had buried their mutual friend. Vance's death had been the first time the war had touched either of them. The three of them had met at officer training although their friendship hadn't blossomed until they were posted out here to Mendus.
“Nothing important, Malek, just some kid they found on base wandering around,” Kalim replied. It was rare that Kalim had to come down to the cellblocks. As an intelligence officer most of his time was consumed reading status reports in his office over at area headquarters.
Malek on the other hand, as a member of the military police, was never out of the place.
“How can you be so certain after the attack?” from his reaction it was obvious that Malek had heard all about the intruder.
“What if it's one of those bastards that killed Vance and the others?” Malek protested.
Kalim opened up the file he was carrying.
“Look at the details,” he said as he passed Malek the portfolio.
“Mid teens, vagabond, no weapons,” Kalim explained in his soft tone.
“What? Look at the size of that knife!” exclaimed Malek leafing through the folder.
“It's a common enough tool, and anyway, look at the age of it, it's probably a family heirloom.”
“So what do you reckon he was doing at the site of a Terran Special Forces strike?” asked Malek.
“Probably just some poor kid left a bit unbalanced by the loud noises and the bright lights. Shell shock often affects members of the civilian population,” Kalim quoted from the medical text he had brushed up on before coming down.
“Glad that psychology degree came in handy,” Malek joked. “Anyway before you get shell shocked by one of Sarah's friends I popped the question to her last night.”
Kalim was surprised by Malek's an
nouncement.
“Judging from your grin she couldn't resist your charm,” laughed Kalim, “Congratulations. Hey let's meet up later, let me buy you a drink.”
Kalim knew this was not the time to question Malek's motives. Sarah and Malek had only known each other for six months. Was this a knee jerk reaction Kalim wondered? Had Vance's passing dredged up a fear of death?
“Now I am shell shocked. You buying a round?” joked Malek, “Sure and besides it might be the last chance we get for a while.”
“Why so?” asked Kalim.
“We just received new orders, my regiment is on standby to go to the Veruct front.”
“Why?”
Malek shrugged, “There's nothing here to guard anymore so they're reallocating units.”
“That explained Malek and Sarah's decision to get married,” thought Kalim. The Veruct front was a meat grinder, chewing up men and equipment.
“Hey, with you down there this war will be won in no time!”
Despite Kalim's jibe the air was still heavy.
Malek was obviously scared this conflict would take his life as it had Vance's.
“Call me, I'm in a new billet because of the attack and the transfers, have you got the new number?” said Malek.
“Somewhere, you'd better give me a note of it again.”
Malek scribbled his number on a piece of paper and the two friends exchanged goodbyes.
Walking down the corridor to the holding cell Kalim's mind was still thinking about Vance death and Malek's impending transfer.
“How quickly things change,” he thought “One day you're playing cards with your friends the next you're dead, or engaged.”
As he walked, the small scrap of paper with Malek's number worked its way lose. It slipped from the closed file tucked under Kalim's arm. Silently it wafted its way unnoticed down to the floor.
“What were you doing on the base?” shouted the interrogator.
From the Torment of Dreams Page 11