“GET THAT MAN TO THE MEDIC!” barked Cheserg.
Bar-Kas was getting fed up with what he was continuing to see as the babysitting of helpless children. He reversed the knob on his helmet, depressurizing his suit and lifting up his facemask as he called out angrily, “WHO’S THIS MAN’S SQUAD LEADER?” gesturing to the hemorrhaging Clansman convulsing on the floor below the Raider. “SOMEONE HAD BETTER ANSWER ME - NOW!” It was an order directed to all the remaining First Clansmen scattered throughout the hangar bay, still frozen in shock.
Bar-Kas’ tone seemed to break at least one of the Clansmen out of his stupor. He jogged over, pointed to the exploded First Clansman lying on the floor and said, “I think it’s him.”
The Second Son rubbed his temples. “Are you a squad leader?”
“No.”
“What’s your name?”
“Sulum”
“Well, you are now, Sulum.”
“A squad leader?”
“You catch on quick.”
“Why me?”
“I just told you, and because you’re the only one of your elite brethren,” his enunciation coming with bared teeth to match his biting sarcasm, “who seems to be able to recover from shock fast enough to regain the ability of speech. I’m going to need someone who can keep the other First Clansmen on mission. Can I count on you, Sulum?” It wasn’t exactly a question in the truest sense, having only one acceptable answer. To his credit, Sulum picked up on that nuance pretty quickly, as well.
“Of course, Second Son.”
“Good.” Leaving his newest squad-leading recruit looking lost and trying to figure out what he should be doing next, Bar-Kas went to look for his original right hand man. He found Cheserg directing a few of the other Clansmen holding the body of their hemorrhaging team member, trying to pantomime to them how to get to the medical bay from where they were. It was a morbidly comical scene; like a group of tourists stopping to ask for directions, only their ground transport was the near lifeless body of a dying Mainlander who’d paid the ultimate price for his heroism, a price no would-be-hero believes they’ll ever have to pay.
At a glance, it was obvious the Clansman wasn’t going to make it and the humane thing to do would have been to put the man out of his misery, right then and there. But Bar-Kas understood morale would be better served for the newcomers if he went through the motions of making an effort to save their brother-in-arms’ life.
Another sacrifice for the cause, he figured.
If the First Clan needed to believe they did all they could to save one of their own, and if that’s how they wanted to spend their precious few hours left of downtime, far be it from him to stand in their way. It was about as fun as anything else they could find to do on this rock of despair, anyhow.
Turning to make his way over to the main terminal leading into the Habitat, Bar-Kas called back over his shoulder, “Twenty four hours, Cheserg.”
The Aberration’s squad leader looked away from the distraught band of First Clansmen and grunted his acknowledgment before going back to carrying out his instructions, which he now knew included one more previously unmentioned task falling to him, as well.
Cleaning up the mess.
Chapter 14: Agendas
The Habitat, Caras 4
Sturdy was the best way to describe it. The Habitat had no windows to speak of except for the hangar bay, if one were desperate enough to use it for a view. Of course, due to the raging storm views were often limited. Average visibility on the surface resided in and around the zero range. Its walls were made out of a composite alloy maintaining heat fairly well, alleviating the need for a dedicated temperature control system, at least as far as life and death extremes were concerned. The complex was still frigid beyond anything that could be misconstrued as comforting.
Every few meters and in every corridor air ducts provided breathable air, pumping it in from tanks strategically placed at various points throughout the Habitat. The division of the air system was also built with survival in mind, ensuring that the destruction of a single storage location, or several, would fall short of crippling the entire facility.
Ceilings were low, spaces were narrow and numerous numbered sections to each corridor allowed for the complete sealing off and compartmentalization of the Habitat, an automated process managed from the operations room or from a control-band strapped to the Second Son’s forearm at all times. If compartmentalization were triggered, anyone happening to be in an affected section would find themselves sealed off in either direction, imprisoned in their own tiny cell of a corridor. Once sealed, and if deemed necessary, individual sections could be remote detonated from operations or by Bar-Kas himself. This last bit of functionality served as a final recourse against advancing troops in the event of an all-out assault breaching the Habitat’s natural defenses.
And substantial those defenses were, burrowing deep into the innards of a low lying mountain, itself situated at the center of a circular basin fashioned from contiguous peaks rising to heights twice its own, the Habitat was in effect nearly impossible to detect without knowing exactly where to look. Probes were incapable of picking up signatures, living or manmade, emanating from the Habitat in a blind flyby, even if by chance the Islands had assumed survival on the tumultuous 4th moon of Osmos to be possible, which they hadn’t.
The Patriarch, on the other hand, actually believed his youngest son capable of setting up a base of operations on Caras 4, and knew him crazy enough to try. Still, he was unable to produce a shred of evidence to support his suspicions. Dozens of scouting parties were sent out, only to return empty handed, those that returned at all. Many fell prey to the elements, or so it seemed. With location and retrieval of downed ships often proving impossible due to the storm, unnatural causes could never be ruled out entirely. Eventually, searches became prohibitively expensive; both in terms of money and manpower, and efforts were suspended indefinitely, leaving the Patriarch to simmer in doubt as to the fate of now two of his sons, at least up until recently.
So yes, it was difficult if not impossible to detect the Habitat if one didn’t know what to look for, and pretty much all relevant parties had no interest of knowing or looking. The only chink in this armor of invisibility was communication. Signal interference was a double edged sword. What it wouldn’t allow in it would not allow out, either. All communications had to be made via buoy launched into the atmosphere directly above the Habitat for signals to be sent or received beyond the storm. Incoming communications had to be scheduled in advance.
Bar-Kas preferred it this way. In fact, he would have preferred not to make any communications at all. A knot formed in his stomach every time that invitation of death called a buoy launched into the atmosphere. To think his one weakness, the thing that could lead his father or the Island Guard to his very doorstep and undo all he’d worked toward these past two years was a globe of metal no larger than a small child. No matter, he thought to himself. Some things could not be helped. He was a revolutionary, and revolutions were expensive undertakings, which meant he was also a businessman by necessity. A service provider of sorts, with clients, and obligations that sometimes included an occasional face to face.
Confirming the buoy launch to the technician sitting behind him at one of the operations room’s many consoles, Bar-Kas resolved to treat his upcoming meeting as a matter of routine, despite his client being someone he’d grown to hate with a passion over the last couple of weeks, and that is to say nothing of the fact that this particular individual was also the most dangerous person he’d ever had to deal with, aside from his father, of course - and as a raider, that was saying something.
“Buoy underway, Second.”
There were no external cameras attached to the Habitat with which to view the launch, visibility restrictions rendering them useless. Instead, tiny sensors on the metal sphere’s outer casing relayed real-time updates to the operations room. All that was left to do now was wait the requisite four minutes and th
irty seven seconds for the buoy to reach optimal broadcasting height above the storm. Bar-Kas stayed quiet, enjoying the dead time and finding solace in the free reign of silence, if only for a few short minutes within his otherwise chaotic waking life.
By comparison, the technician thought silence in the presence of his Second was oppressive. He began fidgeting uncomfortably by the two minute mark and could have sworn an hour had passed by the time the countdown came up on four. Another thirty eight eternal seconds later and he was able to announce, with much relief, “Signal is being received. We have return relay,” looking very professional again and clearly happy to hear his own voice.
“Send it through,” Bar-Kas ordered, his tone flat, a conscious effort on his part to get ahead of his emotions before the face-to-face. It was imperative that his client not suspect anything. Training his focus on the heads up display resting on the far wall in front of him, the Aberration leader watched as his client’s image came into focus. The man had been waiting - for how long, it was impossible to say? He displayed no overt anxiety. There was no measure of frustration or anticipation in his facial expression of any kind and his body mechanics were unreadable. Bar-Kas liked to believe he projected a similar air of ambiguity. Deep down he had his doubts.
The client spoke first.
“I see business has been good to you as of late. The broadcasts are alive with chatter regarding a recent attack on an Island luxury liner, the Nebulous. Apparently the perpetrators, not being satisfied with merely looting the ship, had it detonate upon their escape. A total of 300 civilians were killed.” The client waited for comment. None was forthcoming so he pressed on. “Do you think it wise to be engaging in terrorist exploits on vacationing civilians while there’s a… how shall I put this… a far more professional job, so close at hand?” Leaning forward, he asked condescendingly, “What was the point, Bar-Kas? Am I not paying you enough? Or was this just another cry for attention from the youngest son of the First Family, a boy desperate to be taken seriously?”
Every muscle fiber, every sinew in Bar-Kas’ body pulled taught. He had prepared himself to hide his emotions but this man was dead set on drawing them out. The client’s words were a vacuous suction over his heart, extracting hatred like a thin film from his pores, coating his skin in layers of it. Between clenched teeth, he responded, “You know nothing about me and you do not speak of my family – EVER - understood?” Forcing himself to calm down somewhat, he elaborated, “Unless you’d prefer to complete this job on your own. Remember, I’m not the one who needs you.”
“Oh, I beg to differ,” the client said, leaning forward. “Would you like to hear what I think?” This time he didn’t wait for a response. “As I see it, ever since Parliament enacted the new Essential Materials shipping lane regulations, you and your men have been living day to day off improvised power sources ripped from whatever small civilian craft were unlucky enough to cross your path. I’m betting you’ve been rigging anything you can get your hands on into your system and that you’re this much away,” the client held up his thumb and forefinger in a near pinch to the screen, “from being crushed by the elements of whatever Creator forsaken haven you and your fellow undesirables are hiding out on - how am I doing so far?”
The film of hatred coating Bar-Kas’ body had gone from hot to cold, his blood icing over, freezing him in place, although ironically, protecting him from giving in to the urge wanting nothing more than to reveal everything he knew of this man, to this man.
But something unseen changed the Second Son’s demeanor almost immediately, an epiphany, shedding new light on his perspective, thawing out his blood so that he could respond fittingly. His jaw unclenched and his facial features took on the kind of satisfied look coming with the solving of an extremely irksome and frustratingly vexing puzzle. “Perhaps you’re right,” he allowed at last. “Perhaps you have technology I could use. But there’s a line I will not cross, a price I will not pay - I’d rather die.” He paused briefly, then asked, “How ready are you to die for your ambitions?”
At last Bar-Kas had found his footing with this man. Surprisingly, the client didn’t seem to be bothered by this, his lips curling up in the faintest hint of a smile. “Let’s just agree that we both need each other for the time being, shall we?” he said, settling back in his chair and taking up a posture that implied this had all been some sort of test. That he was satisfied with its results and was now ready to discuss the real business at hand. “My concerns are genuine. Are you aware that one of your victims was a member of the Race committee?”
“Was he now?”
Another pause. The client found Bar-Kas’ obtuse answer to be unsettling. “Did you know he was also a Representative’s son?”
“Even if I did, what of it?”
“Your actions have unleashed a security nightmare for our plans. Parliament has already called for a special hearing on the matter. What would have been a simple operation has ballooned into something far more complex.”
The Second Son could no longer hold back. Somehow he had to show this man that he knew. “Tell me, what have you heard of my brother?”
He’d caught him off guard. The client allowed himself a long and hard look at the Aberration leader, trying to determine whether or not the action taken against the liner was what it initially appeared to be; a random selection of a soft and lucrative target by a small-time raiding outfit seizing opportunities whenever and wherever they could - or whether something far more premeditative stood at its core, something that would necessitate the intentional cornering of a Race official for a troubling unknown. Answering cautiously, the client said, “Same as you, I imagine. Nothing new.”
Bar-Kas didn’t buy it. He knew. Knew of his brother’s fate. Had known for some time. Must have. And even if he hadn’t, it wouldn’t change the fact that he and the policies of those he served were ultimately responsible for Bar-Kan’s death.
However, much as Bar-Kas wanted to scream these things into this man’s face, force him to admit his guilt - he couldn’t. He had an agenda to carry out. The irony of the matter was, if he wanted his client and those he served to suffer, truly suffer, Bar-Kas would need their help to make it happen. “I trust you’ll let me know if you do hear of anything,” he said at last, downplaying the unusual timing of his question just enough to quench fear that he was aware of more than he was letting on, but not enough to quell doubt. “As for the liner, you hired me to do a job and I’ll do it. My strategies, my methods, they are none of your concern.”
“OF COURSE THEY’RE MY CONCERN!”
It was the first time the client showed any sign of real emotion, aside for contempt, and Bar-Kas was surprised to find he was beginning to enjoy this conversation. But as fun as it was to be the one getting under the other’s skin for a change, keeping his client in the dark was still a priority at this point. “This security nightmare you speak of, where’s the Island Guard going to be concentrating the majority of its forces?”
“All the routes. It’ll be next to impossible to get one of your ships through the security net.”
“Yes, but what of the terrestrial precincts? How will they be covered?”
The client gave pause. Perhaps there was method to this raider’s madness. “They won’t have the manpower to cover them properly,” he said at last.
“Or to respond to distress calls,” added Bar-Kas.
“But you’ll have to get onto Osmos first. A task you just made considerably harder on yourselves.”
“Let me handle how to get onto Osmos. What I need from you are the security codes that’ll register me as a friendly to the Pulser-cannon defense system.”
For the second time in the conversation the client became visibly uncomfortable, and for the second time Bar-Kas had to hold back the urge to smile. He never figured hatred to mix so well with pleasure.
“You’ll get the codes on route,” informed the client.
“That won’t work, for several reasons: One, we’l
l be maintaining complete and total communications silence once underway. It’s standard procedure for a mission of this sort, but that’s beside the point. Neither myself nor my men are venturing anywhere near Osmos’ flight paths without codes in hand.”
“Then I’ll give them to you before you depart.”
Bar-Kas brushed this suggestion aside as flippantly as the first one. “Again, not an option. You see how unreliable communications are from here. This is probably the last time we’ll have a chance to speak before the job is completed.”
“And how do you propose to find out when the package will be in place, assuming this to be our final communication?”
The client was merely stalling now. Bar-Kas allowed his impatience to show. He wanted his client to feel like the student for a change. “Once the package is on Osmos everyone will know about it. You’ll have two days from then to get it in place. If it isn’t by that time, it’s on you. I trust this shouldn’t be difficult for a man in your position.”
“I’ll have the package in place,” assured the client, reluctantly going along with the timeframe Bar-Kas had lain out. “You just make sure you’re there to pick it up. One team. Three of your men. Not a soul more.”
“I’ll guarantee it,” and for a brief moment, the hatred Bar-Kas had been fighting so hard to keep hidden behind a wall of feigned, professional indifference, managed to seep through his façade, and he growled out, “just as soon as you hand over those codes!”
Chapter 15: Different
The Habitat, Caras 4
Cheserg stood next to the gurney. A small puddle of brain matter had pooled on the floor near the front right wheel below where one of the two former First Clansmen’s arms hung limp, the gray liquid traveling down along the arm and dripping off a pointing forefinger that to Cheserg seemed to be saying, Clean this up!
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