From the Torment of Dreams

by Iain McKinnon

  But the guilt stayed his hand and he set his pen down.

  Lan was humming softly as he played a game on a portable console. It was the first time Jackson had heard him make any intelligible sound.

  “What's that you're singing?” asked Jackson.

  Lan turned his head, startled and embarrassed at being overheard.

  “Nothing, just a song I wrote,” Lan confessed.

  His voice was softer than Jackson had imagined and he had a strong Terran accent not unlike his own.

  “Sounded none too bad. I was never any good at composing. I played the flute at school but kind of let it slip once I'd left,” Jackson cut to the point, “Thanks for helping us to escape.”

  The “us” only served to remind him that Mornan hadn't made it. He had been crushed to death in the crash landing.

  Lan returned a weak smile.

  “We haven't actually been introduced. I'm Christoph Jackson, most people just call me Jackson. I know you're Lan Agstaff from your dog tags but what do people call you?”

  “Ah, just Lan, I suppose, never really had a nick name.”

  “Christoph's a popular name back on Greda so I picked up the Jackson back at school. There were three of us in my year who had nicknames, it saved confusion,” Jackson tried to prise a conversation from him, “How are you feeling anyway?”

  “OK,” muttered Lan.

  “How are those ears?” it was obvious that the new tympanic membrane was working.

  “Fine,” Lan didn't feel like talking and he made it plain in his voice.

  Jackson didn't pursue it further; it was obvious Lan didn't want to talk, he could square their stories later.

  Lan was in a dark depression; his time in the hospital bed was spent pining for the loss of his love.

  “It's so unfair! What have I done wrong?” his mind played over the same thoughts, “Why did you stop loving me?”

  The only thing he could think of was her. Every nuance of her being wafted fleetingly through his memory.

  The only reprieve from his mental agony was the physical pain.

  Now that he was healing he longed for a reprieve from his thoughts. Pain was the only way he could get her out of his mind, and Lan longed for oblivion to take away that anguish.

  In the night, a weak covering of snow had blanketed the hospital grounds. Now a bright winter sun slowly melted the snow from the windowsill.

  Jackson sat in the day room idly staring out of the window. The last of his bandages had come off earlier that week. His body still had islands of dark brown scabs. Most of these dried volcanoes of blood had the wispy threads of stitches poking through. Dotted at the edges of these islands were bright pink blotches; the soft and tender skin left by retreating scabs. On his left leg was the line the surgeons had cut to repair his bones. It was a straight, unnatural line, it looked more like the work of builders than theatre staff. The bone had finally fused enough to remove the calliper and Jackson was enjoying the freedom that losing this cumbersome implement brought.

  Lan hobbled over and sat down next to him. It was quiet in the room, only the low chatter of the ward outside intruded.

  “I need to talk to you,” said Jackson, “Military Intelligence interviewed me while you were convalescing. I told them you had been one of the team.”

  Lan nodded softly.

  “I don't think they'll be able to check up on you. The mission was shambolic to start with, there was never a comprehensive crew listing.”

  “Why'd you cover for me?” asked Lan.

  “I didn't think you'd enjoy the inside of a prison cell. Anyway, I owe you one for helping us escape.”

  “I wouldn't want to be repatriated anyway, not after the abuse they put me through,” replied Lan.

  Jackson was apprehensive about telling him everything but he felt he had to. His stomach was empty and fluttering. “Sorry for landing you in all this.”

  “How do you mean?” said Lan.

  “I blew up the ship you were on,” in an attempt to deaden Lan's wrath he tagged on, “But I did pick you up in the escape pod.”

  “Uh, well these things happen,” said Lan.

  “So this isn't the first time you've abandoned a cargo ship to be picked up by the people who scuttled her, only to fall into the hands of your own side who think you're one of the enemy?” Jackson gasped for breath after his comical synopsis.

  “You could say that,” said Lan smiling back.

  “Not... before.... I get my.... breath back,” Jackson panted.

  “Seriously though,” Jackson said, “It was me who led the attack on the Coma Berenices. I'm the one responsible for killing the rest of your crew mates.”

  “OK,” said Lan matter of fact.

  “How does that make you feel? What do you feel about me?” asked Jackson.

  “Don't know,” Lan said shrugging his shoulders and sinking deeper into his chair.

  “You don't know?” Jackson asked.

  “Yeah, I mean I'm not all that fussed about it I suppose,” said Lan.

  “You don't mind that I tried to kill you?”

  “Not really, I guess I should be but no I'm not bothered.”

  “OK,” Jackson said deciding he'd pushed this line of enquiry as far as he could.

  “What do you want to do no then? I mean I've told them you were a member of my crew.”

  “I'm good with that,” Lan answered.

  “You don't want to rejoin the Alliance or try and get home.”

  Again Lan shrugged, “No, not really. Home's the reason I joined up in the first place.

  “Yeah? Trouble?” Jackson probed.

  “No, no trouble. Just there was this girl and we split up. Well she's the reason I joined the army. I just couldn't hang around and the army was the quickest way out,” he paused for a moment, “The funny thing is, I can't seem to leave her behind.”

  Section 20

  Kalim stood over a monitor in the guardroom.

  “I want you to take a look at this,” said the security officer, “at first I thought it was static from a loose connection but we checked and it isn't.”

  A segment of footage played on the screen. The quality was poor and jumpy. It showed Nasim meditating in his cell.

  “Why's the image so bad?” asked Kalim.

  “That's the whole thing. There's no reason as far as we can tell. Look.” the guard brought up a recording of the same cell but the picture was sharp and crisp.

  “That's the same cell five minutes before he comes in,” the guard punched in a few short commands on his keyboard, “And here it is five minutes after he's left. Whatever cell we stick him in the same interference.”

  “He's causing this?” asked Kalim.

  “That's what we thought so then we checked him for electronic jamming equipment.”

  “And was there any?” asked Kalim.

  “Nope, clean as a whistle. Not even so much as a filling. Then we spotted this,” the security guard rewound the footage.

  Kalim watched as the cell door opened and Nasim was escorted inside. The picture quality was perfect.

  Nasim took a seat and the escorting guard left securing the door behind him.

  Then the picture quality disintegrated. Spots of static crackled across the screen and interference lines twisted and danced their way from one side to another.

  Without a word the guard at the computer screen paused the recording and rewound it again.

  “So he is causing this?” Kalim said.

  “Watch this,” the guard started flicking through one frame at a time. Kalim bent forward to view the replay more intently.

  The picture of Nasim was clear then in an instant around Nasim's body could be seen a faint light. Through the haze of static the halo remained constant as if weren't merely an artefact of the interference but a actually aura of light around the youth. As he watched the ball of light around him coalesced and detached itself from Nasim. The light glinted, like a lens flare and exited through
the closed door.

  The interference subsided a little leaving no trace of the illumination, just the image of Nasim sitting cross-legged in the room.

  “Play that again,” demanded Kalim.

  “We thought it might be ghosts in the machine. You know, like cross feed from another camera. But it passes behind him in some frames. If it were a signal ghost it wouldn't do that. Anyway it might happen on one recording but we keep seeing it even after running diagnostics,” he gestured to a couple of half assembled cameras on the console, “We've even swapped the cameras over and stripped them looking for faults.”

  Kalim was startled, “You mean this isn't an isolated incident?”

  “Every time he sits down like that and just before he wakes up again,” the spooked security officer looked up from the screen and met Kalim's gaze, “and every time he talks to you.”

  “Morning, Nasim,” Kalim said as he walked into the cell.

  “Morning, Kalim,” came the chirpy reply.

  “Would you like to play a game of cards?” Kalim said sitting down.

  “Explain these to me,” Nasim picked up the unfamiliar pack.

  “It's all very simple. There are only five types of cards, wave, star, circle, square and cross. All you have to do is guess what card I'm looking at.”

  “OK,” Nasim said as he passed the deck back.

  “OK, let's start,” Kalim shuffled the pack and pulled the top card from the deck.

  The instant Kalim's eyes fell on the card Nasim called, “Star.”

  Kalim placed the card face up on the table. It was a cross. He pulled a second.

  “Wave,” said Nasim confidently.

  Kalim, with his best poker face, showed no sign that it was another wrong answer.

  Kalim pulled another card, this time a square.

  “Star again,” said Nasim with the same level of enthusiasm.

  Kalim placed the square card down and continued.

  “Circle. When will you unbar the door?” asked Nasim.

  Kalim was thrown by the question, “The doors? They're not locked.”

  “True, but that is not what I asked.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Kalim.

  “You have a guard placed outside all day. You would not just allow me to leave.”

  “You're a suspect in an attack on this base.”

  “Do you play cards with all your prisoners?” Nasim asked casually.

  “You have to understand we found you on this installation only days after an attack. There are questions that need answered,” Kalim was frustrated by Nasim's apparent naivety.

  “Why haven't you asked those questions instead of wasting our time playing cards?” asked Nasim.

  Kalim's patience was being stretched, “Don't you understand the gravity of this situation? You could be shot for spying.”

  Kalim's voice was strained, “You're an intelligent young man but let me make this simple for you, you're in military custody accused of aiding the enemy in destroying a vital installation. We're in the middle of a war. We can keep you here indefinitely if we want. Now, you can co-operate and make things easy for yourself or you can muck around and live in a world of shit. It's up to you.”

  “Co-operation,” Nasim pronounced the word as if his agrarian up-bringing had never exposed him to the word, “Star, wave, cross, wave, square, square, circle.”

  He smiled impishly and sat back.

  Kalim pulled the cards from the top of the deck. One by one they matched Nasim's prediction.

  “How do you do that?” asked Kalim.

  “At last a question I can answer.” Nasim leaned forward into the light bathing the table, “But do you really want an answer?”

  Section 21

  “I'd like a room for the next two nights,” Cope tried to bury the nervousness in his voice, he knew even an innocuous hotel like this could be a dangerous place. The Waden resistance didn't have any kind of support in Jala, it was too far from their sphere of influence. There was, as with most large cities, an area with a predominantly ethnic population, but even here a Waden accent was a rarity. Cope was booking into the hotel with the intention of using it to find a likely building for a safe house.

  “Certainly, sir, a single or a double room?” asked the receptionist.

  “A single will be fine,” he nodded.

  The suit he was wearing felt alien to him. He resisted fingering his collar as he waited for the receptionist. The receptionist checked the availability and pulled out the appropriate key.

  Cope casually looked around; it was a well-kept establishment although not extravagant. But he wasn't admiring the décor, he was looking for ambush points, fields of fire, surveillance devices and a hundred other things. He had chosen this hotel because it was situated near the down-town business district and so was used to fleeting guests. The rooms would have seen their fair share of executive indiscretions as well as exhausted salesmen. Cope would just be another stranger in a corporate suit.

  The receptionist presented him with the cost, it wasn't extortionate so he paid in cash for the room, it would be safer than leaving a trail of transactions. To complete his disguise, he asked for a receipt. He tucked it neatly into his wallet, picked up his hold-all and briefcase and set off to his room.

  Cope immediately undid his tie and threw it onto the dresser. He fingered the top button of his shirt and let out a sigh of relief at being freed from his constraint.

  “Right,” he said to the empty room, “lets get organised.”

  He set the hold-all and brief case down on the bed and proceeded to open them.

  The contents were benign, no bombs or guns or knives or propaganda. Nothing that could peg Cope as anything other than a visiting businessman.

  There were only a couple of days to set up a safe house. Things had been moving quickly, which sacrificed caution. Using the hotel room as a base he would scour the surrounding area for a convenient property.

  Cope unfurled a map of the city and quickly located the two major locations, the hospital where the assassination was to take place and the hotel he currently occupied. The two were a good few miles apart. It would have made his life easier if he had marked the map but he knew better than to leave clues. He didn’t even press his finger to the surface of the map for fear of leaving a finger print or sweat mark that would give away their intentions.

  Tomorrow he would find appropriate premises to set up a safe house. Somewhere they could be relatively secluded, somewhere close to major transport hubs and in a densly populated area so as to mask their comings and goings.

  It was getting late but Zinner and Orr were still staring at the maps on the table.

  The plan was being rewritten. Only hours before they were set to move, the message had arrived.

  “I'm worried, Zinner. You tell me Earth is ready for a major assault and on the eve of that campaign your people pull out their air cover. I mean, what the hell is going on?”

  “We can still carry out the mission. I won't deny the risk has increased but the air cover was never a major factor,” Zinner took a swig of cold coffee and leaned over the chart.

  He pointed a finger at the map on the table, “We can plant charges in the streets surrounding the hospital to cover our retreat. The detonations will have a similar effect.”

  “My sources say you don't have enough supplies left at Veruct to replenish your firebases and that's why you can't provide air cover. They say you've got less than a month's ammunition stockpiled,” accused Orr.

  Zinner brushed Orr's comments aside, “I don't give much credence to rumours. Besides, it won’t make any difference if we have four weeks or four years worth of supplies if we can end this war tomorrow.”

  “Do you really think we can win this war on the strength of this assassination?” Orr questioned.

  “It’s not just this assassination. We have timed a number of simultaneous strikes. If it all goes to plan by this time tomorrow we could have severed the Neotran
command and control ability.” Zinner answered.

  “Do you really believe that?” Orr sounded cynical.

  “Whether I do or don’t is unimportant. Completing my assigned mission is all that matters.”

  “This was a stupid idea from the start. There's no way we can pull it off now,” protested Orr.

  “This mission is achievable, High Command wouldn’t have invested this level of resources if they weren’t convinced we could do it.”

  “Resources? All I see is a handful of you boys in your grey uniforms and a few dozen crates with God knows what inside.”

  “I don’t think you appreciate just how significant these grey uniforms are. We represent the cream of the Terran armed forces. My men are among the most highly trained anywhere and those ordinance technicians are the best there are. We are not a resource to be squandered and we are not cannon fodder if that's what you're thinking,” he looked Orr in the eye, “and neither are your men.”

  Speg entered the room, “Sir, the supply drop has been checked. We have our full itinerary.”

  “Good, get that technician they sent with the drop, Telfor is it?” Zinner's question was met with a nod from Speg, “Get him to triple check the hardware. And see if between you you can improvise some concealed explosives devices. “

  Zinner turned back to Orr, “The minute we hit they're going to close the city down, check-points, patrols, the lot. Can your men get us out of there?”

  Orr didn't answer straight away, “We have a number of routes out and I've got Cope covering an alternative escape route. He'll be picking us up on the south side of the city if we can't make our own way out. But if something goes badly wrong there's no telling. This isn't home territory. Jala is a long way from Waden. Up here there are sympathisers and safe houses. With our accents we'll draw attention even ordering coffee.”