by Chris Hechtl
The casual sadism from some of the Horathians was the only fresh entertainment on the ship. Apparently the crew took bets on fights and other acts. Betting on how long a victim would stay conscious as they were beaten or tortured was a favorite.
Flogging was a favorite punishment. So strapping a furry Neo or alien with fur or feathers to an X frame and then shaving them or forcing another slave to pluck the victim's hair one at a time. Then they would either be left to recover to start the process all over again, or they would go on to even more sadistic things.
They had quickly learned not to help their alien or Neo brethren. Any who did was labeled an alien lover and was brutally punished. Sometimes they were forced to watch or participate in the tortures, or were subjected to them themselves if they protested.
What got to some of the prisoners was that over time a few of their former comrades went over to the other side. Some willingly went, some reluctantly. The Horathian's were keen on skills. They also liked anyone who parroted the party line. But they'd draft anyone who seemed young enough and then subject them to their own form of indoctrination.
Apparently the draftees didn't start out sadistic bastards, they were usually sick during such encounters, at least at first. But then, a combination of social pressure, drugs alcohol, and time seemed to wear their sense of right and wrong down. Eventually they cheered on as well.
He could understand the psychology in a way; they were trying to fit in to survive. To keep a low profile, not stand out. If everyone was a sadist, then be a sadist. The one eyed man wasn't king here. The man with a conscience here didn't last long.
“So, why the MC? Why brig a master Chief? He really had to have stepped in it.”
“If you are thinking the enemy of my enemy is my friend, don't bother. It's not like that. They are heavy on discipline,” Sindri rumbled.
“When the flu or whatever first broke out, the ill enlisted Horathians had been initially denied medical provisions, just like the prisoners, something that had stuck in the craw of the master Chief. He had been overheard acidly making comments about it and wound up here for his loose insubordinate talk. He had no problem with denying the draftees or the slaves supplies, but not their own people. Reserving the best supplies for officers only hadn't set well with him either.”
“Oh.”
“The exec had even requested a formal court martial the officers commented, but the current Captain had turned him down and performed a Captain's mast. He's here for another week or 'until he changes his tune'. They put the MC in charge of the prisoners.”
“Right,” John replied. “So, confronting me was supposed to be his way of what? Establishing his authority?”
“Yeah,” Ian said. He smiled crookedly. “You messed that up.”
“High school self defense class,” John said when Franx looked at him curiously. “It's saved my ass in a few bars and on the docks a couple of times.”
“I see,” Franx replied. “Well, you certainly put the cat amongst the pigeons as my father used to say. Expect a call from the Captain soon enough,” he said.
“Lucky me,” John replied dryly.
Hearing Bard return to consciousness, John turned his attention to him. The big man was back on his feet, glaring at John warily. John returned the stare with a courteous but blank face, making the MC turn and cover his disquiet with a cough.
“Talk later,” Franx said, suddenly nervous. John realized by talking to him it could reflect badly on the other prisoners. He slowly made his way to a corner, and took a seat, feeling the eyes of the entire compartment on him. He put his implants on power saving mode and reviewed his recordings, feigning sleep. Slowly the prisoners returned to their usual routine of waiting, gossiping about their pasts, or sleeping. He knew Sprite would record it all and process it over time.
Reviewing the situation, he checked his impressions of the other prisoners. From the way she glared at men in the compartment and shied away from them, Karen Hoshi was exhibiting classic rape and psychological trauma and was a question mark. Franx and McGuyver were both possibilities, as were some of the other crew. The Horathian’s were a wild card he hadn’t anticipated, and any possibility of planning an escape was out the window as long as they were in the room.
<----*----*----*---->
“Why hasn't the Admiral broken out yet? I thought that was the plan?” Proteus asked the other two AI through their shared link.
“Patience,” Sprite replied. “I believe he is assessing the situation, and allowing both him and us to build up a map of the ship and people involved.”
“He could do that after we retake the ship,” the nanotech AI replied.
“If he survived the taking. There is such a thing as not going off half-cocked. The more intel we gather now, the better the chances are of pulling this off successfully,” Sprite replied patiently.
“The odds of pulling off a successful break out and mutiny are low. There are force fields and defenses throughout the ship. An alert crew can lock him into an area and then vent it to space,” Defender said.
“Correct. So we need to find ways to prevent or circumvent those problems. And plan them. Contingency plans. You're the security AI. Turn the situation around and put yourself in the Admiral's position. What would you do?”
“Exactly what he is doing,” Defender admitted. “Wait.”
“Then we wait,” Sprite replied.
Chapter 7
After two hours of checking his impressions he switched to the scans of the compartment. The room was eighteen meters square, and lined with bunks on one wall. The brig was set up for a small prison population, which explained the current sleeping arrangements; there were too many bodies in too small a compartment. The toilet was in a corner in full view of everyone. Someone was currently sitting on it as a seat.
The path to the brig had identified problems with the ship, but less than many of the current ships he had been on. The biggest problem he had were the markings, the naval markings had been replaced with Horathian ones. He couldn't tell the name of the ship and in some cases where they were.
The amusing thing to him was that they had attempted to disorient him by taking a roundabout route from the boat bay to the brig. He was certain it was to keep him off balance, but there might be something else involved. The brig was on the same deck as the boat bay though.
Looking back at what he had recorded on fast-forward, he realized the ship was relatively clean, and most of the major maintenance issues looked under control. The current skeleton crew was probably playing havoc with the maintenance schedules. The ship had one large boat bay; it had been clean with what appeared to be the normal complement of a pinnace, cutter, the Skyhawk, and three Cobra class fighters.
He remembered his encounters with other boat bays. Io 11 had been a mess, as had the boat bays on Kiev 221. To see the ship not only ship shape, but also kept that way said a great deal about the quality of the ship's crew and its officers. He wondered how far that extended to all Horathian vessels in general.
Unfortunately he couldn't use the ships captured in Pyrax as a meter stick, all had been shot up pretty thoroughly by the time the marines had boarded. And some had gotten even more shot up in their final moments of capture.
He looked around with absent eyes as he processed what he had learned. Sprite would need time and access to get into the ship's systems. For now he didn't dare turn her loose to try to get into a wifi node, if there was one available.
Proteus seeded the compartment with spy nanites. They had a limited life span, but the AI could bring them back to reset the timer as needed. Well, as long as the Admiral was in the compartment when they needed to be reset. He shrugged mentally. He knew he was going to lose a few, he'd already lost a few hundred in the shuttle and another thousand or so on their trip from the boat bay to the brig.
Most of the prisoners had bedded down for the night wherever they could. Several were forced to sit Indian style in the middle of the room. It
looked like many of the prisoners were under fed, and most showed scars of past beatings in both their manner and body. A few of the women were ominously quiet and very touchy. Some of the men in the compartment tried to defer to them. Most of the women clustered together away from the men, shooting them the occasional hate filled looks.
The Horathian’s obviously took the bunks, and the trio of surviving prisoner officers were clustered together in a tight area far from the door and head. He couldn't blame them; the smell from the head was bad. Throw sixty-four people, now sixty-five, in a room with one working latrine and bad things happened quickly. It looked like they were trying to keep a handle on it, scrubbing it every shift. He wasn't sure if that was because they were ordered or because of health considerations. They had no cleaning agents though, just water from the small sink and elbow grease.
Exec Hoshi was one of seven females in the compartment; all five of the non-Horathian females appeared to share the same trauma symptoms… the pair of non Horathian females were clustered together, near the other women but as far from the Horathian males as they could get. One of the women was aggressive, snarling at a male who made an advance on one of the other women. She turned to glare at the watching crowd, cowing a few.
The door opened and several more prisoners were shoved inside, all dirty and grimy. Wearily they made their way to the head and food replicator. Six of the prisoners stood and made their way to the door, and after being hassled by the guards, were chained and let out.
<----*----*----*---->
Horathian Captain Brian Hathaway received the report of captured ship with mixed feelings. He was glad they had another prize, but his crew was perilously cut to the bone. He barely had enough to man all the shifts in engineering and on the bridge. He had been tempted to let the little ship pass, but its antics near the gas giant had piqued his interest.
Now he regretted it. Oh, having a sleeper with implants was a major feather in his cap, as was another capture. The ship lacked cargo, but the report of industrial grade replicators on board was another coup for him. That in itself was odd on such a small ship. He'd have to ask about that. He made a note to do so. He wondered if this Captain Doe went around and used the replicators to make up for a lack of ability to haul cargo. That might be it.
The ship however caused a few problems. One, the ship was almost dead, and out of fuel. Her computers were functional, but only barely. His Chief engineer had reported that the structure the sole person on board had been working on at the time of their taking of the vessel was a gas giant refinery.
That was very interesting. That bit of hardware might have proven useful if the force emitter and Electromagnetic Pulse hadn't fried its electronics. Right now it was a couple hundred tons of slowly tumbling scrap. A navigational hazard, if it wasn't already on a slow course into the gas giant's atmosphere. He had about two days to decide if he wanted to bother rescuing it or not.
The other issue that bothered him the most though was the lack of crew. If the report was to be believed, this guy had gone it alone. That was inconceivable you just didn't do that. No one could handle being in space for long periods without someone, even if it was just someone to talk to. How had he managed to fly when he was asleep? No, something screwy was going on. It nagged at his him like a sore tooth. Something just wasn't right, and he wasn't sure if it had implications that could affect him. For now though, they'd have to keep an eye on the guy.
He'd have to look into things in more depth shortly, if not now, then next shift. For now they needed to get life support restored to the prison ships and recover the weapon. Servicing it would take a couple of shifts... he frowned in thought and then nodded. Lieutenant Blye was quite the over achiever, as his exec he could be relied on to get things done. They had had a rocky first start, Blye was a bit of a sycophant with higher authority as well as sociopath tendencies to those under him, but he did have a way with discipline and order. The blond blue eyed Lieutenant would have to be watched, sometimes he went overboard.
Brian pondered that again. He always wondered if Peter set himself up as the bad ass as a classic psychological ploy. He had studied it in command school, have a bad ass Chief or officer, and then someone else who comes off as a moderating influence. Therefore the moderating influence was respected and was thought of as a leader. Also, they feared the exec. They feared what would happen to them if he ever gained command. Brian tapped the stylus on his lips. It could be psychology, if it was, Peter was a hell of an actor. In the three years they had been together he hadn't let his mask slip once. If there was a mask at all.
He studied the engineering report, putting the thought aside. There was the usual grumblings from Chief Serall about the lack of manpower. That was to be expected. He frowned. Apparently his idea to restart the fusion reactors had failed the last sim. Brian wasn't certain about it. According to the Chief it had less than a ten percent chance of working... and a thirty percent chance of blowing up in their face or melting down. Restarting a reactor was a delicate procedure. He'd thought he would be prepared when command issued him the weapon and his orders to guard the fleet's flank in the system... but apparently they and he had underestimated its problems.
Sure, they had gotten four prize ships off. But the weapon hadn’t hit one; they had dropped out of hyper right into the destroyer's lap practically begging to be captured. He frowned. The weapon.. he shook his head. It was a great toy, but here it seemed wasted. Not that he was complaining, he could always use an extra hand in capturing prizes. But this jump line was rarely traveled, few ships came through this area to visit the sparse systems around. Fewer traveled now, he smiled, remembering his prizes.
In a way, he had to admit it was a good place for a field test of their first functional force emitter drone. Home built, just about every part built in Horath without the use of a replicator, quite the achievement. He remembered his histories, it was said that ships had carried a variety of drones and fielded them as needed.
But the weapon was a pain, needing servicing after each use. That threw the engineering department and their carefully crafted schedules into a tailspin. His lips puckered in distaste at the thought.
And Serall was a plodder. He was an acting Chief anyway, an assistant the Captain had been forced to rely on since he had sent Chief Grimaldy off on Zarconi six months ago.
He frowned again and then sighed. If Serall didn't shape up soon he'd have to do something about it. Not that he wanted to, the next officer in the chain of command was Ensign Wilks Derrick, a fresh snot nose. The kid had the hardware down, but the rough edges of the crew were a trial for him. He sometimes needed to be reminded to grow a spine. Hopefully he would soon.
The kid was squeaky clean, not tainted like the rest of the crew. Hathaway wondered how long that would last. Even he had given in to temptation years ago and let his dark side reign. It was a great stress release for him. He reminded himself to schedule his monthly session soon. He'd have to pick another female though; the ones on board he'd gone over already.
He frowned and rubbed his temples. Hopefully something would break, like one of the ship's returning with his missing crew. That would be nice, he thought. Or relief that would be even better, they were overdue. Tin Lizzy as the crew semi affectionately called Bounty had been on station for far too long without relief.
He returned his attention to the new ship. The replicators... he mused, thinking. “If we can get them working... yes, maybe we could fix the other ships,” he murmured to himself. He scheduled a meeting with this Doe for the next day.
<----*----*----*---->
After breakfast of watery porridge and a visit to the head the next morning Irons was amused to overhear a discussion between the prisoners. The normal tradition of the brig said that the newest had the shittiest jobs, like cleaning the head. Apparently the group was of two minds on how to clue the newcomer John in on this.
John ignored it for the most part. He was slightly amused and curious about how th
ey would proceed, and who would be elected to tell him.
Ian took a short shift. He returned two hours later looking tired. He didn't have any fresh bruises, so that was a plus. He looked around the compartment and then took a seat next to the newcomer.
“So... I'm guessing the ladies are all unattached?” John asked Ian in an aside.
“Don't even go there,” Ian growled. “I know it may have been a long time, but stick to rosy palm. Those ladies have been through enough.”
“I know,” John said, trying hard to come off on the right note of sympathetic understanding and not aloof uncaring. “I was wondering if they had a spouse in the compartment or did the pirates kill them?”
“Dead. Those that had them,” Ian said darkly. “Like my Liz.”
“I'm sorry,” John said, patting the man on the arm.
Ian sucked in a breath and then let it out slowly. The Admiral could see him getting his sudden distress under control. “It's nothing I can do about. Now.”
“I know. It sucks. I was going to tease you about your ship's name. I'm glad I held off,” the Admiral said.
Ian looked at him in confusion. “What?”
“Deianira. It's Greek. She was the husband of Hercules.”
“I know that part,” Ian replied, waving a dismissive hand.
“Yes, well, her name means the husband destroyer,” John said sheepishly.
Ian paused and then smiled sadly as he caught on. “Oh.”
“See, back in the day, some spacers didn't bring their families. Their spouses had their own careers, or they wanted to raise a family ground side or on a station.” Ian nodded for him to continue.
“Some spouses resented the other wife, the ship. So...” He shrugged.
“So someone had a sense of humor. Or just got cute. Okay, got it,” Ian said with a shrug. “Doesn't matter now, she's out of my hands anyway,” he said darkly.
“For now,” John murmured as the other man moved off.