From the Torment of Dreams

by Iain McKinnon

  A sharp crack of noise made Jackson turn round.

  Lan was kneeling behind the hangar wall spraying bullets into the guards. From here what guards Jackson could see had stopped advancing and had adopted firing positions. And between them out in the open were the Neotran prisoners. The paratrooper who had acted as decoy for Lan and Jackson was being supported by one of the tank crew. The two men hobbled as fast as they could, the paratrooper being almost dragged along, but they were falling behind their comrades.

  “Lan try and cover those two,” Jackson pointed down the concourse.

  Lan didn't bother to acknowledge Jackson’s command as he swept his sight over the concourse popping off shots at any Terran he perceived to be a threat.

  If they pointed their weapon in his direction they were a threat. Lan would squeeze the trigger and move on to the next. If they stood up to move forward or to get a better shot they were a threat. Lan would squeeze the trigger and move on to the next. If they were crawling forward they were a threat. Lan would squeeze the trigger and move on to the next.

  Lan focused totally on his task, methodically placing shots into the most urgent of his self selected threat list.

  Tightening his grip around Keir's webbing Jackson turned and started dragging his unconscious comrade through the bloody swarf to the dropship's loading ramp.

  His boots slipping and squelching in the fresh blood, Jackson heaved Keir’s unconscious body up the loading ramp. In the cargo hold he unceremoniously dumped Keir down and rushed to the cockpit.

  The cabin was high above the ground, affording Jackson a view down onto the runway. Looking down past Lan he could see the puffs of bullet impacts hounding the escaping Neotrans. Beyond that he watched as the Terran soldiers closed in on the hangar's position. Occasionally one of the attacking Terrans would stumble and fall to the ground. They either sprawled there unmoving or writhed around clutching the bullet wound Lan had delivered. But in spite of Lan’s best efforts still more troops were being drawn into the skirmish, advancing, getting closer with every volley.

  Jackson wrenched himself away from the drama outside and started preping the ship for take off.

  Lan's shots were devastatingly accurate. Unblinkingly he stared down his rifle’s sight. He was as stolid as ever, almost trance-like as he fired round after round into the enemy soldiers. No longer expecting an easy victory the Terran soldiers cautiously crawled forward firing at Lan as they did. Like an invincible God of war Lan fired kill shot after kill shot, impervious to danger.

  Lan pulled the trigger again, only this time it didn't fire. The magazine was empty. He ejected the spent magazine and slapped a new one in place.

  One of the prisoners crumpled into a ragged heap and a second escapee turned to help.

  Lan switched his angle of fire.

  “Leave him!” Lan commanded, “He's dead.”

  The man hesitated for a moment before a volley of shots persuaded him to obey Lan's order.

  Inside the shuttle Jackson tried to fathom out the dials in front of him.

  “Fuel gauge, altimeter, throttle,” Jackson fingered over the panel familiarising himself with the layout. The controls were very basic. Dropships were an expendable asset so were made to be functional with no space for elegance or comfort.

  “OK.” He muttered to himself as he found the last switchesand dials he needed.

  Jackson interlaced his fingers together and twisting them outwards he let his knuckles crack.

  “Here goes,” Jackson said as he flicked the ignition.

  The whole craft juddered as the powerful machine burst into life. Enveloped by the broiling sound of the engines Jackson banged on the window signalling for Lan to get in.

  Lan continued his relentless defence. Round after round he kept the attackers at bay. No thought, no conscious decision. Adrenaline had wiped out any trace of humanity and left a hollow automaton repeating a mechanical task. He aimed his rifle and fired mentally ticked off another hit. He aimed his rifle again and fired. Another hit.

  Instinct rather than logic controlled his actions. When he could he aimed for the soldiers’ faces. It wasn't a malicious act it was trained instinct. It was an almost guaranteed kill shot and even when it didn't kill the damage inflicted was too severe for the combatant to rejoin the fight. Failing an easy head shot he went for their legs or bodies. He knew not every shot was a kill all he was trying to do was buy the time the prisoners needed to escape. None the less Lan knew that at least some of those hits would be fatal. His face frozen in Zen like concentration was as placid as his emotions. He knew he was killing human beings and what’s more, it didn't bother him.

  Lan aimed his rifle at an other hapless Terran, “click”.

  “Fuck,” Lan ducked round the hanger door and out of sight of the Terrans.

  “Ammo, ammo, ammo” He started patting down his ammunition pouches. Shots ricocheted off the hangar walls hastening his search.

  As he patted himself down the fabric of his battle-pack puckered betraying the lack of magazines.

  Then his hand struck something hard. With a smile Lan flipped open the fastening and dipped his hand in.

  His fingers found the hard edge of something plastic and he plucked it free.

  “Hell,” Lan said as he realised he'd grabbed a hand grenade.

  He popped the explosive back and continued his search.

  “Come on, come on,” he cajoled himself as he delved into empty pockets.

  Realising he'd just checked the same pouch twice Lan let out a curse, “Shit! Dry!”

  Lan cast his eyes around looking for some more ammo and as he did he caught a glimpse of Jackson in the dropships cockpit gesturing wildly for him to board.

  Out of the corner of his perception Lan caught movement. He whipped round ready to fight when he realised it was the first of the escapees.

  “Get onto the ship,” Lan bellowed as the man ran past.

  Lan ducked out past the hanger doors. The last two men were on their knees crawling forward.

  The injured paratrooper had obviously taken a round. A slimy trail of blood snaked back along their path.

  “They'll never make it without cover,” Lan surmised.

  There, lying in front of him, among the discarded contents of Keir's pack lay an ammo magazine.

  “Nice one, Keir,” he said kissing the retrieved ammunition and darting back under cover.

  Lan loaded his rifle and bobbed back into his covering position.

  “Move!” he screamed at the struggling pair.

  Again he started laying down suppressing rounds.

  The bravado in the Terrans advance evaporated as Lan resumed his deadly task.

  Shielded by the devastating accuracy the remaining two escapees hauled themselves into the hanger.

  “Get into the ship quick!” Lan ordered without taking his eye from his sight.

  The pitch of the engines rose a fraction.

  “Time to leave,” Lan said to himself.

  He fired off a couple of parting rounds at the closing Terran before dodging back round into the hanger. He delved into his battle-pack and retrieved his last grenade. One handed he flicked the primer on the explosive and tossed it as far down the runway as he could.

  Lan jogged round to the rear of the ship and even over the roar of the engines the grenade’s detonation was audible.

  Skidding clear of the dropship's wing two base guards ran through a door on the far side of the hangar.

  Caught by surprise Lan stabbed at the trigger and let rip. The gun on fully auto bucked and pulled at Lan’s aim causing the muzzle to dance wildly. Inaccurate though it was the two men were hosed by Lan's burst and tumbled to the floor.

  Ignoring his latest victims he hurried forward to the dropship. Clearing the craft’s stubby wing a third figure ran in through the same doorway. Lan caught the glimpse of bright green overall of a medic just as he pulled the trigger.

  “Click!”

  The last magazine
was spent.

  The medic dipped down grabbing the machine gun from a fallen guard.

  “Freeze!” screamed a female voice over the buzz of the engine.

  Lan looked up in horror. The voice had slashed straight through him. In shock he stood there bewitched by the memory of that voice.

  He stared into those green eyes, “Nicola?”

  She aimed her pistol at his head and cried, “Don't move!”

  Fear was the only emotion in her voice, there was nothing to betray that they had ever been lovers.

  Lan couldn't think what to say to her. He had relived their relationship over in his mind in the months since she'd left him. Now that they were together there was a chance they could work it out? Now he could prove himself worthy of her affection. He was different now, he was stronger, he was important.

  “Nicola, it's good to see you,” Lan knew how stupid he sounded the moment he said it.

  “Drop your gun. Drop it!” her terror was invisible to Lan in his mesmerised state.

  He looked back up the ramp to the nervous escapees waiting in the dropship.

  The turbines under its wings started to build power and the noise filled the enclosed hangar.

  The Terran medic was terrified by the whining sound and the carnage around her.

  “Come with me.” said Lan.

  “I've been taken away from my friends, my family and my education to be dropped into a bloody war zone!” her rancour was drowned by the sound of the jet engines, “This whole situations been caused by turncoat bastards like you!”

  But her words were lost to the belching noise of the idling engines.

  Jackson was anxious.

  “Come on, Lan! Where are you?” he called out peering through the restrictive side windows to try to spot him. The shuttle was ready for take-off and Lan was nowhere to be seen.

  “Can you see Lan?” Jackson called out to his passengers, but there was no reply.

  “I'm going to have to fetch you?” he cursed as he left the cockpit. Jackson walked into the hold, he looked around at the waifs he had saved. The beaten and bloodied paratrooper lay sprawled across the deck next to Keir. His blood had already coalesced into a trickle that was running back out the open ramp.

  The two tank crew just sat there their faces a tired mess of grime and dejection.

  “Don't just sit there give them first aid!” Jackson wrenched a medical kit from the wall and threw it at them.

  The box bounced off one of the scolded tank crew and tumbled to the deck. The man didn't move.

  Jackson grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to his feet, “If I'm flying you out of here you're paying your way,”

  He let go and the man stood there more out of surprise than resolve.

  “Now crack open that med pack and get some fluids into them.”

  Jackson turned to the other escapee, “And you fish out some wound dressings and plug the leaks. Got it?”

  “You can come with us, Nicola,” Lan tried to say above the din.

  Her hair was shorter than when he'd last seen her but not drastically. It was tied back too, something she'd never done when they were together. For all the subtle differences all Lan could see was the girl he'd fallen in love with.

  He twisted his torso and raised his left arm, pointing up the open gangway of the dropship.

  “We could be together again, just forget all this and fly away.” he said.

  As Lan turned he pointed his rifle straight at the medic.

  The sound and heat billowing from the engines overwhelmed what Lan was trying to say.

  Lan's gun was aimed right at her.

  The panic and fear ignited in her and she fired.

  Lan was carried back by the force of the impact and landed sprawled beside the gantry.

  He didn't feel the bullet hit him. He didn't feel the pain. All Lan had knew was that his gaze into her emerald eyes had been wrenched way.

  Before he could comprehend what was happening he was lying on the deck near the dropship with the noise of the turbines fading to silence. His line of sight was fixed staring straight up at the ceiling. On the roof of the hangar long steel bars gently sloped to support the covering fabric.

  Lan gazed at it, unable to blink or move his eyes. The edges of his perception started to close in and darkness overwhelmed his sight.

  “Lan!” Jackson screamed.

  He watched as a crimson flood pooled around Lan's still body. Jackson started down the gantry but a second shot rang out. The shot whined passed him and embedded itself in the cabin behind.

  “Lan's dead!” Jackson let slip looking at his friend's still body.

  A spray of bullets sparked across the access ramp urging his retreat. Jackson dived back into the hold and scrambled past the refugees for the cockpit.

  There was nothing he could do. Strapping himself into the pilot's seat he threw open the throttle. The engines roared and pushed the craft out onto the runway.

  Terran soldiers re-grouping on the concourse fired at the shuttle with their small arms. The ineffective rounds just bounced off the re-entry toughened skin.

  Jackson pushed the throttle forward giving it all the power he could. With the flaps locked in the take-off position, the shuttle thundered into the morning sky.

  It was quiet; the sounds around him had faded into nothing.

  In the centre of his darkness a pinprick of light started to grow.

  Transfixed by its radiance Lan let the serenity cradle him.

  There was a rush of stillness like an injection of opium. So comforting and enveloping.

  Was it the light growing larger or was he drawing nearer?

  Buoyant his mind drifted upwards.

  Swaddled in its warmth Lan surrendered himself to oblivion.

  ###

  Afterward

  I honestly don’t know why I wanted to become a writer but I know exactly when I decided to become one. I was on holiday with a friend back-packing through Spain. I finished reading the book I’d brought all too quickly so out of boredom I asked to borrow my friend’s. Flicking through its pages I was appalled by it’s shallow characters and thin plot. Lying on a Mediterranean beach looking up at the starry night I proclaimed, “I can do better than that!”

  When I started writing this book I was unconsciously incompetent, that is to say I had no idea how little I knew about writing a book. I had no idea how long or difficult a process it was. I had no idea about the complexities of plotting or character. Had I known I doubt I would have had the determination to persevere.

  But for once in my life ignorance was my ally. I wrote my book, this book, over the course of about four years. I received encouragement to keep writing from a very good friend without whom I would never have had the impetus to keep going. Unencumbered with any literary knowledge I continued on merrily throwing words at the screen of my computer.

  When I finished I had created a masterpiece. I duly printed out the 65,000 words and sent the manuscript off to publishers who would no doubt be eager to pay me a huge advance and elevate me to the level of international best selling author.

  I still have some of the rejection slips, from those publishers kind enough to reply.

  There now came the second most important moment in becoming a writer. Rather than simply despairing at the publishing world’s inability to see my work for the revolutionary genius it so clearly was I decided to examine my writing.

  I bought a whole swathe of “How to write” self help books and started to read.

  As the saying goes there are only three things you need to know to write a novel. The only problem is no one knows what they are.

  I read a number of fiction books both the ones I liked and the ones I didn’t like picking apart what elements of them I wanted to emulate and which I had to avoid.

  Having done all this I came back to my book and read it. I read it not as its author but as a reader. And what I read was atrocious.

  On and off for the next t
en years I would tinker with it, polish up the sentences, elaborate more on the detail, working each and every word.

  I left this novel from time to time always coming back to it with fresh eyes. Making changes both big and small.

  Now some seventeen years after I started here it is. It is here not just because of the work I put into it but because of the encouragement and support that others have freely given to me. I have thanked a number of people already in the acknowledgments but I would also like to thank, in no particular order; Remy Porter, Paul S Huggins, Donald John, Persephanie and Richard Cochran, Sean and Constance Page, Jami Sroka, Kerry Spiller Loughrey, Brian Gibson, David Lightfoot, Michele Cacano-Green, Jon and Kelly Sparks for their support in getting this novel into print.

  This novel was my apprenticeship. I have worked hard to finish it and hard to craft it to the best of my abilities.

  Can I do better than the author of that book I read on holiday in Spain?

  I don’t know. I can’t honestly say that my writing is better than his or anyone else’s for that matter. All I know is I have a lot more respect for him now than I did that night on a beach watching shooting stars.

  Ultimately the reason this novel is here is because I wanted to write the kind of book I would enjoy reading. My sincerest wish is for you to enjoy this novel and if not to say to yourself “I can do better than that.”

  Iain McKinnon 2013

  P.S.

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