From the Torment of Dreams

by Iain McKinnon

  The Reverence was aptly named. She and the Dominion were the largest ships left in the fleet, far surpassing the cruisers and shuttles that ran alongside. The Reverence's dark skin camouflaged a multitude of impact scores, but she sported some fresh patches to her larger wounds. The clean metal glistened white even in this twilight. From a distance the repairs looked comically like sticking plasters on a child's grazed knee.

  As Lupus Beta drew closer, the extent of the damage was more obvious. Large chunks of fuselage were missing leaving gaping holes. The areas of damage still being repaired swarmed with people clad in white space suits, an activity that reminded Baxsell of maggots cleaning a wound.

  The small shuttle navigated its pre-programmed flight path and docked into an empty hangar.

  The bay was completely oversized for a vessel like Lupus Beta. Normally it would seem smaller because of other craft parked here but ominously they were the only one. Baxsell and Khosla waited nervously in silence as the external and internal air pressures were equalised. When it was complete a green light blinked into life.

  “Well let's see what they've got for us,” said Baxsell.

  Even before Baxsell had time to open the air lock door, ground crew had engulfed the ship.

  As the engineers set to work on Lupus Beta an officer walked across the hangar and greeted the exhausted spacefarers.

  The hangar here was the largest open expanse they had seen since leaving Greda. Free from the constraints of his ship Baxsell put his arms above his head. For the first time in months he stretched the full length of his body.

  The officer called out in a loud authoritarian voice as he walked towards them.

  “Gentlemen,” the word echoed around the lonely hangar.

  Baxsell noted his lack of respect for his commercial honorific. Etiquette dictated that the officer should have addressed him as “Captain Baxsell,” It may only have been a commercial Captaincy but he had worked long and hard to achieve it.

  The grey figure continued in his condescending manner, “We're upgrading your craft with long range sensors.”

  He then proffered a folder to the men. Baxsell, still sulking, waited for Khosla to accept the documents.

  The grey dressed man, who had still to introduce himself, continued, “Lupus Beta is to...”

  Baxsell cut him off, “Spirit of Tristia”

  “What?” the grey man was not amused.

  “Her name is Spirit of Tristia. Lupus Beta was our designation from the Coma Berenices mission.”

  The grey man stepped closer, “I don't much care what you call this heap of scrap. You have your orders and just now we need every ounce of strength we can muster.”

  “Screw you! We've done our bit for the war.”

  A look of disdain swept across the grey man's face.

  “The war! You've done your bit for the war! Don't toss your dummy out the pram with me!” raged the officer, “I've read the reports on your mission you've had one engagement.”

  “And it was damn near our last.”

  “Well it wasn't so you're getting refitted and sent back out.”

  Baxsell twisted his shoulders back unknoting more of his muscles, “I'm not inclined to go out and fight for you at the moment.”

  The officer snorted, “You're not fighting for me. You're not fighting for freedom of our families back home. Here and now we're fighting for survival. We are fighting for our lives!”

  The last two words buzzed round the empty hangar a couple of times before melting into the walls.

  The officer composed himself and softened his voice, “Our best information tells us the Terran Alliance is about to launch a counter offensive against Greda. We're under direct Presidential orders to hold the line here, at all costs.”

  “Well whoopee fuckin doo, pal,” Baxsell's head bobbed as he enunciated each word, “Thanks for the speech.”

  Khosla let slip a stifled smirk as he watched the grey man turn crimson.

  Baxsell continued, “We've been in space for four months, eating and drinking our own processed shit, and you come along with your holier-than-thou attitude. Well, it's not on. We're taking a week's leave.”

  “I'll have you in prison for your insubordination!”

  “Yeah, well a prison cell will be a damn sight bigger than that,” Baxsell shot a glance back at the Spirit of Tristia,” and at least I'll be served proper food. It's your choice pal, shore leave or you find yourself some new chumps.”

  Section 19

  “Captain Jackson. Well,” Doctor Rhea joked, “you kept that one quiet.”

  “I've only got Captain because no one else would take the dammed thing,” Jackson lied trying to maintain a pretence of modesty, but he had to admit to himself ambition had been his motivation.

  “What did those army types want with you?” Rhea was referring to the two uniformed men who had just left.

  “They were asking questions about the mission and our escape,” Jackson wondered if he would get away with the lies that he had told the intelligence officers.

  He'd known for weeks that he would have to account for the mission and had agonised over what to tell them about Lan. He didn't present a threat to Neotran security and had it not been for Lan he would never have escaped. It was this debt that Jackson felt he was paying off by fabricating a plausible reason for Lan being one of his crew. What worried Jackson was that somehow his subterfuge would be exposed and they would be punished for his lies. Military justice was harsh and inflexible, by protecting Lan he was putting his own liberty at risk.

  The officials had been unable to question Lan, he was in worse shape than Jackson; a blessing as it bought time to prime him on their contrived story.

  “He was a last minute addition,” Jackson had lied, “we just pulled in some extra muscle for the boarding party.”

  The uniformed men had taken this all in but added, “For security reasons we'll have to check your story.”

  Jackson knew their search would prove difficult, his mission had been hastily thrown together and wasn't properly documented. He doubted there would even be a complete list of the craft involved. As for the crew, only Shen or Mornan could have testified against him.

  The officials' mood had been almost jubilant as they departed, “The President himself was pleased to hear of your success.”

  They may have been pleased but a medal was no comfort for Jackson, the bereaved or the dead. Awards couldn't console him over the friends he'd lost or the lives he'd taken.

  Doctor Rhea put down the chart she had been mulling over and sat beside him.

  “I went to college near here,” Jackson said to Rhea, “Well, it was a good two hour flight from here but when you consider the distances between here and back home on Greda it's right next door.”

  Rhea listened quietly, nodding in all the right places. Her mind was preoccupied with a niggling anomaly but she tried to humour her patient.

  “One of the guys in my class came from round here,” Jackson said, “He and his girlfriend used to take it in turns to visit each other once a month.”

  “Seeing as you're in town why don't you call them?” asked Rhea, “It wouldn't do you any harm to have a couple of visitors.”

  “That was a while ago now, I don't even know if they're still together,” was Jackson's excuse as he fiddled with the plastic bracelet around his wrist.

  “Give me their names and I'll see if I can't find their address,” Rhea offered.

  Jackson stopped playing with his identity tag and looked up at Rhea, “It's not the addresses you lose.”

  “I suppose not, anyway how's the leg?” Rhea asked.

  A mesh of wires surrounded Jackson's shattered leg with stainless steel spokes that pierced through his flesh to keep the bone underneath supported.

  “It's sore when you tighten the screw and if it gets cold,” said Jackson.

  “That's to be expected, there's not much we can do to help that,” Rhea looked down at his chart, “I see the bo
ne has fused another two millimetres since yesterday.”

  She pointed at the injury with the pen she'd used to mark his chart, “A break like that without proper medical treatment and you would have lost your leg.”

  “Don't you normally just graft extra bone on?” asked Jackson.

  “Normally, yes, but there is a war on. Our stocks are so low that it's being rationed for essential cases only. The only option we had was to mend what tissue damage we could and then force your body to fuse that break. It's just as strong as a graft if not as instantaneous.”

  Rhea tucked her pen into her top pocket and came closer to examine Jackson's face, “Is that scar giving you any trouble?”

  Jackson brushed his fingers down the raised skin on his cheek, “No, but will it get... well less noticeable?”

  “The pinkness will fade but you're always going to have a noticeable mark there. You'll find that the hair will be patchy even around the burn but it will grow less prominent over time.”

  Jackson nodded taking his hand away from the muzzle burn, “Oh OK”

  “I always find it fascinating, you almost lost your leg yet you're worried about a tiny scar on your cheek, I'd have thought it would bring a little colour to your profession.”

  “My profession?”

  “Being in the Fleet.”

  “Oh, I'm not career military,” Jackson hastily corrected her, “I'm in the customs service.”

  Rhea looked blankly at him.

  “We're more like police in space. We mainly patrol the commercial shipping lanes, checking for contraband, smuggling that sort of thing.”

  “Did you do any long hauls?”

  “Not really,” Jackson shook his head, “six months at the very most.”

  Rhea broached a question she hoped might clear up her little mystery, “Tell me, Captain, were you and Private Agstaff ever held in suspended animation?”

  The question came as a complete surprise to Jackson. He stumbled out, “I haven't been but I don't know if Lan has. Why?”

  “It's just that during your friend's ear operation we noticed some unusual neural activity. That, coupled with the needle scars on his arms made me wonder,” Rhea said.

  “Wonder what?” Jackson was nervous.

  “Could the surgeon have picked up some detail that would reveal Lan's identity and my own falsehood?” the thought raced across Jackson's mind.

  “The pattern looked identical to one you would expect to see in a sufferer of Prolonged Dream Exposure.”

  “Pardon my ignorance, but what's that?” Jackson glanced over at his companion who lay sleeping off the effects of his anaesthetic.

  “It's where the neural pathways are conditioned to react to similar stimulus; when a patient internalises the same set of feelings or memories over and over again. It's been found to effect people who have had an emotional trauma coupled with a long period of isolation; like hostages or psychiatric patients on long-term sedation or suspended animation subjects.”

  Jackson shrugged, “Well, I guess he might have been.”

  He tried not to show any nervousness at the questioning but it was far more incriminating than anything the intelligence officers had asked. The only reason's for putting people in suspended animation Jackson could think of were if their life support failed or to save resources on a long haul flight. Both of those events would have to be documented somewhere and when they found no record of Lan Agstaff suspicion would be raised.

  “You mean you don't know,” said Rhea.

  “No. Lan only joined us just before we left,” Jackson lied, “I really don't know anything about his background. He was just assigned to my ship.”

  “Isn't that a bit odd.”

  “I couldn't say. It was all very confusing, what with the commission and getting the ships upgraded and decked out. I didn't have time to wonder about such a small detail. He was assigned and that was that. No point making an issue over it.”

  “I wasn't making an issue out of it,” Rhea said calmly.

  “No, I didn't mean it like that. It's just the way the Navy works I guess.”

  “Well to make sure he's OK I've sent off for blood work. If I find traces of protein chaperones in his blood that would indicate that he was in suspended animation in the last eight months or so.”

  “What does it do anyway?” Jackson was curious.

  “P.D.E.? Sufferers typically have intense memories or fantasies, often coupled with a pseudo paralysis. They freeze up or live out what they're experiencing in their minds. The seizures are known as dream incursions and it's invariably a negative state.”

  “Why negative?”

  Rhea elaborated, “That's to do with the situation and the way memory is stored. A part of the brain called the amygdala is active during R.E.M. sleep. It helps to process emotion both retrieving it and storing it. If the person experiences regular traumatic events it can trigger P.D.E. because of the stimulus to the amygdala.

  “The other cause of P.D.E. is in suspended animation. During sus' am' the subject is placed into a deep sleep, like hibernation. During the hibernation you're completely unconscious your brain activity is next to zero. But the drugs that keep you knocked out break down relatively quickly so they need to be monitored and topped up. If the dose is too weak the subject can rise out of their hibernation.”

  “I've head of that,” said Jackson, “There's that horror story where the crew of a ship wake up, I don't know why, bad batch of drugs, mechanical fault or whatever. But the ship isn't carrying enough provisions for the journey and they ended up eating each other!”

  “Yes, very fanciful,” Rhea said in a disapproving tone, “P.E.D. can happen when someone is between the two states. If they're not getting enough to keep them unconscious but when they are getting enough to prevent them from awaking up fully.”

  “So they spend their time dreaming?” said Jackson.

  “Yes and specifically in R.E.M. sleep where the amygdala is active. They end up in a kind of dream loop where the emotions in the dream feed of themselves.”

  “So the nightmares get worse?”

  “Well not necessarily nightmares but certainly highly charged and emotional dreams,” Rhea explained, “When they do get revived they can have flashbacks. Even the smallest reminiscence can place them in a catatonic state as they remember the event.”

  “And you think Lan's got this?”

  “If he has it's been impossible to spot because of his injuryies and the medication he's been on. Have you ever seen him in a seizure or has he looked like he was in a trance?” asked Rhea.

  “No,” again he lied recalling their escape, “But as I said I haven't known him that long. Is it dangerous?”

  “It's not life threatening in itself but if he has a seizure while doing something dangerous, like driving, the results could be fatal. We can alleviate it with treatment but that takes time, and I wouldn't advise putting him on active duty, not before we've had time to assess the severity of his condition, if he has it.”

  “You've not spoken to Lan yet?” asked Jackson.

  “No, he's not been in a state to ask yet. I'll wait for the test results first. After all the brain scan is never conclusive. I just wanted to make sure I was looking in the right direction, what with all you've been through I thought it was worth checking on.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Jackson found himself biting his lip as he watched the Doctor walk out of the ward.

  Lan lay in the darkened ward, the only source of light the pale green glow from the ward clock. Four thirty-four the digital face read. Lan was troubled by the noise. For the first time in months he could hear. The coughs, snores and other sounds from the patients were loud and intrusive to his newly repaired hearing. The one benefit of being deafened during his escape from the Coma Berenices had been the ease with which he could fall asleep. The sedative from the operation had faded away leaving him awake with the pain. Lan would not ask for a shot to alleviate his suffering, how cou
ld he? No drug or treatment could mask the pain of her leaving him.

  In too much pain to sleep, he closed his eyes and saw her in the darkness of his mind.

  She was giggling, looking so happy lying naked beside him. They were wrapped in a warm red radiance that emanated from the portable heater in the corner of the room.

  He let his eyes travel up her body. Her feet with unvarnished toenails. The teardrop curve of her calf muscle. Her luscious feminine thighs. The mound of her vulva and the light twists of pubic hair. The swelling of her stomach she always moaned was fat but was nothing of the sort. His gaze drifted up to her chest. His eyes lingered over her silky breasts. Erect, almost purple nipples, quivered with each breath as her whole body loitered in a state of arousal. Her shoulders held the lines of a finely sculptured Greek statue, feminine but strong. Even in this light Lan could make out the discolouring, no bigger than a coin, of the love bite he had drawn from her neck during their throes of passion. He raised his stare to meet her face. Dark red lips still flushed with coursing blood. Soft warm cheeks with a ruddy blush on them. Lastly and most importantly his eyes gazed into hers. He almost cried to see the intense lust burning for him deep in that misty, green vision.

  “Where had that love gone? What have I done wrong? How can I get you back? Why did I fuck up?” Over and over again in his mind the visions and the torment twisted around and around.

  Jackson put down his pen and paper. He strained hard to make out the whispered song from the bed next to him. He had been writing a letter to Kathy in the vain hope that somehow it could be delivered past the blockades. There were other ways to contact her but he had decided to write. He told himself it was more personal, that there would be no chance of a mistake with the transmission. If this was delivered to the wrong place it would be obvious and the recipient would forward it rather than just pressing delete.

  Jackson struggled to the find any words beyond his salutation. This was the real reason for the letter. Jackson knew he could go through the motions because it would take months for his letter to reach Kathy, a few more days delay surely wouldn't matter. Staring at the foreboding paper it demanded he tell her he had been wrong. He should apologise for abandoning her, for getting swept up in the excitement of war.