Stars in the Sand

by Richard Tongue

 “Low power,” Caine said. “A comm laser.”

   “Shall I let them connect?” Orlova asked.

   “Cease maneuvering,” he replied.

   Within a few seconds, the beam operator managed to follow Ouroboros’ new course track, and hooked into their reception antenna. Weitzman, turned, surprise on his face.

   “I have someone for Mr. Durman.”

   Nodding, Durman said, “Good, I was expecting this. Could you put them on?”

   “Sir?”

   “In for a centicred, Spaceman,” Marshall replied. “Go ahead.”

   An image appeared on the screen, a brown-skinned man with long, flowing hair, wearing an urban camouflage jacket. The background was digitally altered, a blur of pixels – they were obviously keeping their communications room secret, but had no problem showing them that. Durman drifted into the pickup, and smiled.

   “Hello, Ram. It’s been too long.”

   “Have you been mistreated?” he said with a clipped English accent.

   “No,” he replied, shaking his head. “They took some sensible precautions, but nothing more. I am fine.”

   “That is well.”

   “Excuse me,” Marshall said, “but could someone let me in on what is going on?”

   Durman turned to him, and said, “Ram, may I introduce Lieutenant-Captain Daniel Marshall, of the Triplanetary Fleet. Captain, this is Brigadier Ram Singh, commander of the Democratic Underground.”

   “The resistance!” Orlova said. “You’re rebelling against the Cabal!”

   “Quite so,” Singh said. “Major Durman has elected to bring you to one of our key headquarters. I am most curious to learn why.”

   “I think the two of you need to talk; you can certainly be of help to each other. Captain Marshall is attempting to retrieve some captured members of his crew from Ahwaz.” He turned to Marshall, then said, “Denebola VII.”

   “I see,” Singh said. “Captain, I invite you to pay a visit to my headquarters. You may bring one officer with you; both of you will be unarmed, and no recording devices will be permitted.”

   “I’ve got a better idea,” Marshall said. “Why don’t you come on board my ship?”

   “Because, Captain, I have five particle cannons trained on your vessel, and my tactical aide has just informed me that he has a good firing solution.”

   With a thin smile, Marshall replied, “That does sound like good reasoning.”

   “It could still be a trap,” Caine said.

   “Captain, if Ram wanted you dead, by now this ship would be a collection of floating atoms. The Underground has a lot to offer you, and I venture that you have a lot to offer it. I’ll come with you.”

   “That doesn’t reassure me. This could still be a means for you to return to the Cabal.”

   Shrugging, he said, “Then I’ll remain here as a hostage. This is where I get off, though; if you take me to Denebola, we’re dead. I’m wanted there.”

   “For what?”

   “Mr. Durman, in his youth and under a different name, assassinated Admiral Dunbar at a rally,” Singh said. “A particularly vicious thug. The Underground contacted him shortly afterward, and arranged for his escape.”

   “You weren’t in the Underground then?”

   With a chuckle, he said, “We called ourselves the Black Hand Gang. Too much history.” The smile faded, and he continued, “I never found out what happened to the others. I hope they got away, but I doubt I’ll ever know.”

   “If you’re telling the truth, you don’t have anything to fear from us,” Marshall said. “Brigadier, I accept your invitation.”

   “Excellent,” he replied. “I will send a shuttle to pick you up. It should arrive at your main airlock in ten minutes. Singh out.”

   The image flashed out, and Orlova turned to him, “Sir, let me go in your place.”

   “No,” he replied, and turning to Caine said, “You aren’t going either, Deadeye.”

   “Danny…”

   “If this goes wrong, if it is a trap, then both of you have to stay up here to think of a way to get out of the mess I’ve got you all in. No protests on this, that’s an order.”

   “You’ve got to take someone with you,” Caine said.

   “I will indeed. Weitzman, have Cooper report to the main airlock. Inform him that I want him in uniform.”

   “Dress uniform, sir?”

   “If he brought it along for this ride, he might as well. I didn’t, though; smart casual will have to make do. Maggie, you have the conn, and I want to make something clear now to all of you. No attempts are to be made to come after me. The ship is your first priority. Is that clearly understood.”

   Orlova looked at Caine, and said, “Yes, sir.”

   “I’ll be in my quarters. Once the shuttle has departed, resume evasive pattern. No point making it too easy for them.” He turned to Durman, and said, “No offense, but…”

   “You want me back in detention.”

   “Please.”

   “Very well,” he said, glancing at Cantrell. “I believe this dance is ours.”

   “Wait a minute,” she said. “Captain, take me with you instead of Cooper. He could lead a rescue attempt if this goes wrong…”

   “I’ve already given orders for that eventuality, and while I appreciate your enthusiasm, I think this is a job for a trained Espatier.”

   She looked for a moment as if she was going to provide a counter-argument, then shook her head, and replied, “Aye, sir. I’ll get Durman to the brig.”

   Marshall pushed past her, diving into the corridor and out of the bridge. Orlova looked after him, then ducked back into the command couch, stabbing a button to summon Nelyubov to the bridge.

   “Shuttle launching,” Weitzman said. “This is odd.”

   “What?” Caine asked.

   “It’s one of ours. Triplanetary design, Mark IV.”

   “A copy?”

   “No, definitely one of ours. Clearing atmosphere, so I can get a good shot at it.”

  Orlova looked over at Weitzman, the said, “Any chance you can get a serial number?”

   “I think so...got it.” He tapped a pair of buttons, then said, “CSS Daedalus. Lost fifteen years ago, at the Battle of Ross 128.”

   “That ship went down fighting the UN,” Caine said. “I had a friend on board.”

   “Are you sure, Deadeye?”

   “My friend told me the story after the war over some drinks. Most of the crew were captured, a few got away on Thunderchild.”

   “That doesn’t mean anything,” Orlova said. “There’s a lot of war surplus stuff flying around out there. I wouldn’t be that surprised to find some of it had made its way out this far, especially with Cornucopia on the case.”

   Weitzman shook his head, “I checked the register. We never salvaged that shuttle, or anything from the Daedalus. All of it ended up in UN territory after the war. Just the usual casualty retrieval permitted.”

   “Which means that if anyone salvaged that shuttle, it would be the UN.” Orlova nodded, “Better page the Captain.”

   “You think this is a trap?” Caine said.

   “This doesn’t change anything. Not yet.” She smiled, then said, “Hell, I already thought it was a trap.”

   “Then…”

   “It’s a trap that has already been sprung. I just hope the Captain can talk us out of it.”

  Chapter 17

  Ducking down the corridor, Marshall swam towards his cabin. He swung in, and started to pull off his flight jacket, curling it up into a ball and tossing it to the wall. Folded carefully in a drawer was his uniform, and he carefully slid it on, making sure to keep it as smart as possible. After a moment’s hesitation, he clipped his medal ribbons into the slot over his breast. He didn’t usually wear them on duty, but it was as near as he was going to get to dress code.

&nb
sp;  Running his hands through his pockets, he removed everything, just sliding his communicator into his belt, setting it to record. No point taking anything unnecessary on this trip, certainly not taking anything that could provide any information in the event he was captured. He unclipped the holster, and placed it back in the drawer, gun in position with it. Not that it would do him much good against an entire base of people if he took it with him, but somehow, he still felt naked.

   He drifted back out into the corridor, making his way towards the elevator. Cooper was waiting for him, still tugging on his olive-green duty uniform, and the two of them drifted inside, riding down the decks in silence while the trooper finished dressing, struggling to tug his boots on in the zero-gravity.

   The door opened, and they stood at the airlock, waiting for the shuttle to dock. Marshall peered out of the viewport as it approached; it was a standard atmospheric shuttle, an older mark, but one he knew well enough to fly.

   “Definitely one of ours,” he said. “I flew it often enough during the War.”

   With a loud clang, it docked, and the airlock slid open. Marshall made to enter, but Cooper shook his head, pushing past him, cautiously ducking inside, tensed for action. After a second, he went into the cabin.

   “Hello,” Cooper said. “No-one’s home.”

   Marshall flew into the passenger section; it was empty, six couches ready for use. All the usual emergency stores were in position, a trio of spacesuits hanging on the wall. Drifting forward, he tapped a control, and the hatch to the pilot’s cabin opened.

   “No pilot, either,” he said. “Must have come up on automatic, or remote guidance.” He slid into the chair, then shook his head, “The manual controls have been disabled.”

   “Of course, Captain,” a voice said from overhead. “We know the way a lot better than you do. Please strap yourselves down.”

   Glancing back at Cooper, he said, “Looks like this airline is safety conscious.” He strapped himself into the pilot’s cabin, looking out at the planet below. Gray, with mottles of blue, and periodic cryovolcanic eruptions from a belt of mountains at the equator. The shuttle dropped away from Ouroboros, and the engines began to fire, sending them flying down towards the surface at speed, the acceleration pushing him back in his chair.

   Instinctively, he reached for the useless controls, planning to arrest their descent, but pulling the lever had no effect. Shaking his head, he sat back and tried to enjoy the view. There had only ever been one trip to a planet like this, the 2093 Pluto expedition, long before he was born. Getting out that far wasn’t easy, even now, and aside from research, there was never any reason to. The exogeologists would have a field day here, if they could open the place up for them.

   Whoever was flying the shuttle was somewhat overenthusiastic; the thrusters tossed them to one side, getting out of the way of another eruption. Then the ship dipped, the nose pointing down towards the horizon, and a trio of alarms started to sound as his communicator chirped.

   “Danny,” Caine’s voice said. “We show impact in four minutes.”

   “I read the same from here,” Marshall replied. “I can’t do anything, there are no controls on board.”

   “We’re getting a shuttle after you. Stand by…”

   “Negative,” he replied. “You’d never make it in time. No point killing someone else. My orders stand, Deadeye.”

   “Danny, we can’t just sit up here.”

   “Yes you can, and yes you are. Marshall out.”

   He snapped the channel closed, hoping that she would obey his order. There was still time, just, for the shuttle to stop its descent, and he somehow had the feeling that someone was testing him. A series of red lights flashed on, and the shuttle passed the point of no return. He shook his head, leaning forward over the useless controls.

   “Skipper,” Cooper said.

   “I’m sorry, Corporal,” Marshall said. “I’m reading about three minutes to impact. If you want to send any last messages to Alamo, now would be a good time.”

   “Never was any good at speeches, sir.”

   The shuttle span around, the engines burning at full, and the ship began to decelerate. Marshall turned back to the sensors, a brief feeling of hope quickly dashed as he looked at the altimeter.

   “Just prolonging the inevitable. Somehow I find it offensive that we’re going to die because someone made a mistake; I guess they weren’t out to kill us after all.” He peered at the trajectory plot, “We’re heading right for one of the volcanoes.”

   Marshall unbuckled his straps, not wanting to die uncomfortable, and stretched out on his seat, watching the surface grow closer. A desert of blue crystals, illuminated only by flashes of starlight, and now the trail from the shuttle’s engines. Not an unattractive place to end up, though not quite what he would have expected.

   “Captain, would you please strap yourself in?” the voice said again. “You will be landing in five minutes.”

   “At a speed that will make wearing the restraints rather pointless.”

   “Not at all, Captain. At this moment you are on course for a safe landing.”

   “I think you must be looking at a different shuttle.”

   “Things are not always as they seem.”

   Peering at the trajectory plot again, he saw that they weren’t just heading for the volcano – they were heading for the crater at the top, on a course that was set to take them right inside. He punched a couple of controls – at least the navigational computers were working, even if the course was locked. If they had another twenty-nine miles, they would be able to slow to landing speed.

   “Strap in, Cooper! This one is going to be interesting!” He fastened his restraints again, and looked at the shuttle’s aft view, watching it descend on a pillar of flame into the heart of the volcano. Any pilot trying a stunt like this would loose his wings back at Sol, but that didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate the skill that must be involved.

   As they passed inside the volcano, he took a deep breath; the shuttle’s searchlights came on, and it began to descend on its lateral thrusters, racing deep into the heart of the planet. Further they fell, still slowing, until the walls opened up again to an immense natural cavern, supported by pillars of rock, on the shores of a faintly glowing sea, sparks of light dancing across its surface. The shuttle dropped down to the side of a dome, the same design that he had seen a hundred times on bases across the Solar System and beyond, and he could see a transport car racing across to the landing site.

   “That was fun,” he said to Cooper, as the shuttle rested into position on the landing pad.

   “I think I’d rather have known in advance, skipper.”

   “Next time I want to try it on manual.”

   With a smile, Cooper said, “Would you be awfully offended if I sat that dance out, Captain?”

  The airlock opened, and they turned to see a figure standing inside, wearing the same urban camouflage pattern; a tall woman, long gray hair wrapped around her shoulders, and a frown on her face.

   “I take it you are Captain Marshall, and this is your aide?”

   “That’s right. And you are?”

   Looking around the cabin, she said, “The Brigadier is waiting for you. I’ll handle post-flight; you can head to the base.”

   “Some welcome,” Cooper said.

   Turning sharply at him, she replied, “You are not welcome. If a Cabal ship enters the system now, the rebellion could be pushed back by a decade. All we want now is for you to leave.”

   “Don’t blame us,” Marshall replied. “You have your Mr. Durman to thank for our presence here. If we aren’t wanted, we’ll leave.”

   “Now that you are here, your visit might as well not be for nothing. If you will step this way?”

   The two of them stepped into the waiting car, and were far from surprised when they found that it was as empty as the shuttle had be
en. It departed without any warning, jerking Marshall down into a seat and sending Cooper sliding to the floor. He pulled himself to his feet, sliding into a chair.

   “Bumpy ride,” he said.

   The dome grew closer; it seemed deceptively far away, and they bounced over the landscape for a mile before turning around, reversing into a large airlock. He got a good view of the underground sea as he approached; he couldn’t quite believe it was water, and the strange glow cast an eerie light on the surroundings. With a very final clang, the doors slammed shut, and a light flashed on, air hissing outside.

   “Green light, skipper.”

   “No spacesuits, so I guess this is shirt-sleeve. There’s only one way to find out.” He tapped the release button, and the doors opened. Waiting outside was Brigadier Singh, a young woman standing next to him in the ubiquitous camouflage.

   “Welcome to Verne Base, Captain.”

   “Verne?”

   “Are we not in the center of the earth? Or as close to it as one is ever likely to get?”

   “A point well taken,” he replied. “I wish you had given us some warning.”

   Shaking his head, Singh said, “This base is our greatest secret, Captain. And it must remain so.” He pulled an antique communicator out of his pocket, and passed it to Marshall, “If you would like to reassure your comrades in orbit about your safety, this will route through a scrambler.”

   Taking the device, he said, “Marshall to Ouroboros. Come in.”

   “Captain?” Weitzman’s astonished voice replied. “We...I’ll give you Orlova.”

   “Thank you, Spaceman,” he replied.

   “Sir,” Orlova said. “It’s very...how the...what happened? We saw you crash!”

   Glancing at Singh, he said, “I’m not at liberty to provide you with any details until I get back, but suffice to say that their landing system is somewhat complicated.”

   “Can I see for myself, Captain?”

   Marshall fiddled with the controls for a moment, and managed to turn on the camera; Singh gave a disapproving stare, then a curt nod. He played the camera over himself, then over Cooper.

   “As you can see, we’re under no restraint or compulsion.”