Act of War

by R. L. Giddings

  With that, Hermendal moved off down the corridor, inspecting the various doors on the left hand side. Most of them were little more than walk-in cupboards but one had a more substantial set of double doors.

  “In here.”

  It was dark inside and the lights only came on as they explored deeper. It was some sort of maintenance corridor which appeared to go a long way back. As they went further, Morton became more and more resentful. There was enough space in here to house a hundred crewmembers. It was one thing to be lied to but it was quite another thing to see those lies exposed for what they were.

  About half way down the corridor, Hermendal stopped opposite a large metal grille which went from floor to ceiling.

  “Ah, this looks promising.”

  Morton threaded her fingers through the metalwork. “What is it? Some sort of air duct?”

  “That’s exactly what it is.”

  “But how do you intend to get us through there? Won’t you need a …”

  She was interrupted by the sound of a lock being turned. There was a click and Hermendal gently moved her to one side before swinging the heavy metal grille up and over.

  “Where’d you get the key?”

  “I borrowed it from someone,” Hermendal walked forward, seemingly unconcerned by the lack of light ahead.

  “What if they need to use it while we’re gone?”

  “We’ll be finished by then. Come along, we have a lot to see.”

  Morton stayed where she was. She was having serious doubts about all this - there would be serious consequences if they were caught. For one thing, she didn’t want to compromise her relationship with Sunderam before it had a chance to get going. Despite his intransigence on certain matters she did feel that he was actually listening to her concerns and she didn’t want to jeopardise that over some stupid jape.

  She imagined that if Mahbarat ever found out about this, the consequences would not be inconsiderable.

  But then, perhaps she was being naïve. They’d been cut off from the outside world for ten days and she was starting to lose her sense of perspective. If Sunderam was such a good ally, why had he lied to them about the ship being over-crowded? And what was it that were they hiding away that was so secret they had to keep it from their own people.

  This is crazy, she thought as she followed Hermandal into the darkness. But he’s sure to get himself caught if I don’t keep an eye on him.

  After fifty yards, the corridor merged into a narrow tunnel about two metres in diameter. The ceiling was much lower here and she had to crouch, being careful where she placed her feet in order to avoid tripping over. There were countless reasons why she should go no further but these were all forgotten as she heard Hermendal somewhere up ahead, chiding her to keep up. They came to several intersections and at one of these Hermendal waited for her. He was breathing heavily by this point, the confines of the tunnel taking their toll. They had to climb a short ladder into a conduit and he needed help getting up there. They were both sweating profusely by this time and when she saw how narrow the conduit was she almost turned back.

  Apart from a thin overspill of light from beneath them, they were in total darkness. The conduit wasn’t only small, it was also cramped with power cables and wiring running along both sides. And because the ceiling was so low they were going to have to crawl the rest of the way.

  But Hermendal was insistent that they continue. Almost as soon as they started crawling she became aware of a light source up-ahead and this gave her a fresh incentive. Besides, it would be far more onerous trying to turn back now than it would be to press onward.

  That was the thing about Hermendal: once he suggested something it was almost impossible not to go along with it. Where had that skill come from, she wondered? Had he learned that from the Da’al or was that the reason they’d pressed him into service in the first place?

  Hermandal stopped suddenly and with her head down, she almost ran into him. Directly ahead of him was another metal grille. Similar design to the first one, this one was probably a third the size. From what she could see, there appeared to be a large room on the other side was bathed in the sort of green light you’d expect to find at the bottom of a lake. Hermendal was searching around, looking for a possible key hole. The temperature had dropped significantly and Morton was aware of the sweat on her skin starting to evaporate. With her help, Hermendal eventually located the key hole, situated in the centre of the grille design.

  When he turned the key, a loud click echoed all around them.

  The grille, which hinged at the top, started to swing upwards and outwards so that they had to crawl on their hands and knees to get through it and out onto a small ledge. Then it was a short drop down to the floor of an impressive antechamber which was approximately half the size of the main cargo bay back on the Mantis.

  Dominating the centre of the room was what appeared to be part of a spaceship, though it was difficult to know exactly what it was because it was draped in tarpaulins. The tarpaulins, in turn, were secured to the floor by lengths of chain.

  It was freezing inside the antechamber and Morton wrapped her arms about her, her breath blossoming in the air.

  “What is that thing?” she asked.

  “It’s big, whatever it is.”

  “Looks like one of those early dropships. You know, the ones that were always crashing.”

  Hermendal squatted down. “Can’t see any kind of landing gear.”

  “Beagels.”

  “What’s bagels got to do with anything?” Hermendal gave a little involuntary sigh as he pushed himself to his feet.

  “Not bagels. Beagles. That was the name of those dropships.”

  “Oh.”

  It was difficult to make sense of what they were looking at. It was shaped like one of those helmets the Roundheads wore in the English Civil War with the peak resting on the ground. It didn’t seem particularly stable and would have easily toppled over without the chains holding it in place.

  “You think this is something to do with the Da’al?” she asked.

  Hermandal grunted. “This isn’t their sort of thing. And I’d know.”

  He lifted his arm, and stepped forward as if to rest his hand on one of the restraining cables.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” Morton warned. “That’s cold enough that your flesh’ll stick to it if you’re not careful.”

  Hermandal approached the edge of the tarpaulin itself, before ducking his head underneath.

  “Here, look at this. What are these?”

  Morton kept a torch with her which she used for medical examinations, but still she hesitated. She didn’t want to be here. Whatever this thing was, she didn’t want any part of it. It was dangerous. She strongly suspected that if the Yakutians knew they were in there they wouldn’t hesitate to have them both killed.

  It had been stupid of them to venture into here in the first place and the longer they remained, the greater their risk of discovery.

  “Come on,” Hermendal urged. “Just take a look.”

  In spite of herself, she took out her torch and edged forward. Hermendal’s breath had started wheezing – that crawl through the tunnel had taken more out of him than she’d realised. In the end, it was her who got down on the floor and crawled underneath.

  She found herself looking at the underside of a ship’s hull, but one which had endured a great deal of battering. The surface was rough and discoloured where the paint had been ablated away. It looked as if it might have been involved in some kind of explosion though there was no hull damage that she could see.

  What she did find was a long identification code which had been worked into the metal. It was a combination of numbers and letters which bore out what Hermandal had said about it being of human origin.

  “What about those things?” Hermandal was pointing. “What are those things, there?”

  She ran the beam over a series of raised fittings.

  “Oh, those,” she squinte
d. “I recognise those. Explosive bolts. Looks like a lot of them.”

  “Who uses explosive bolts?”

  “They used them a lot on the early space missions: to attach the lunar modules to their fuel containers. You didn’t want the whole thing coming apart during lift-off so you used bolts like this. Blew them off as soon as they’d cleared the atmosphere.”

  “Any idea why they might be using them here?”

  Morton moved in closer with her torch, examining one from a variety of angles.

  “To know that, I’d have to know what this thing is or, failing that, what it was originally attached to.”

  She moved back a little further under the fuselage, studying the way the craft had been constructed. And the more she looked, the more familiar things seemed.

  Then something caught her eye, something which quite took her breath away.

  “Alright,” she said, scrambling out. “We’ve seen enough. Time to be getting back.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I’m afraid that’s completely unacceptable.”

  They were sitting in the Renheim’s briefing room. Webster and Silva seated on one side of the desk with Meyer and his XO, Commander Farnese, on the other.

  With a head of curly blonde hair and tan complexion, Farnese looked as though he’d be more at home on a surfboard than on the deck of a starship. He exuded a calm demeanour which had remained in place throughout his captain’s earlier tirade.

  “I understand your frustrations, captain,” Webster was saying. “They’re common to all of us, yet we need to keep this thing in perspective.”

  “That may well be the case, commander,” Meyer spat out the last word with real fury. “But that doesn’t excuse your behaviour. Really I would prefer it if you both left.”

  At this point, Farnese leaned across. “Normally I would agree, sir, but I think the least Commander Webster can do is to provide us with an explanation for his bizarre behaviour.”

  Silva turned to Webster, inclined her head and widened her eyes as if to say, you’re only going to get one shot at this.

  “Of course,” Webster said. “I’d like to apologise, captain, for taking advantage of your generous nature in setting this meeting up. But you must understand that I did so with the best of intentions.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Meyer snapped, crossing his arms. “My orders are very clear, commander, but don’t let it be said that I won’t listen to reason. You have five minutes to state your case before I have you escorted off this ship.”

  “Thank you for indulging me, captain. Commander,” Webster acknowledged both men in turn. “You’ll notice on your notes that I’ve highlighted the number of escape pods we’ve so far been able to recover.”

  “I’ve seen that, yes. Forty six pods for you and, is this the Serrayu’s numbers I’m looking at?”

  “That’s correct. They claim to have recovered forty five pods.”

  “That doesn’t seem like very many,” Meyer swiped at his screen. “Considering their size. Did they provide you with any names?”

  “That was the only communication we’ve received from them before they up and left for a new set of co-ordinates.”

  “No doubt got better things to do,” Meyer mumbled, scrolling through the new information. “And these other figures: Sundowner seven. Mollie McGuire nine. Another five and a four. I take it these are civilian craft trying to provide assistance?”

  “That’s right, sir. Altogether the various ships have recovered twenty three pods between them giving us a total of a hundred and fourteen. But that still leaves a hundred and seventy nine still unaccounted for and, for every hour that passes, those pods are drifting further and further away. So, you’ll have to forgive me if I’ve been a little over-zealous.”

  “Well, we’ll have to see,” Meyer sat up a little straighter his demeanour seeming to have softened somewhat. “Under any other circumstances we’d be only too keen to render our support but, as I’ve said earlier, our orders are very specific in that regard.”

  Both Meyer and Farnese nodded at that.

  “While I’m aware of the sensitivity of such information,” Webster said. “Might I enquire into the general nature of your mission?”

  Whilst Meyer’s body language gave nothing away.

  After consulting with Farnese he said, “I’d like to speak with Commander Webster in private, if I may?”

  Webster turned to Silva. She nodded her assent although she didn’t seem happy about it.

  For his turn, Farnese pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll arrange for some coffee to be sent through. In the meantime, I wonder if Lieutenant Silva might like to accompany me on a tour of the observation deck?”

  Silva took her cue to stand. “That’ll be fine with me.”

  As Farnese came around the table, she made a show of taking his arm.

  *

  The observation deck was unlike anything Silva had seen on a military vessel. It was the kind of needless extravagance you might expect to find on one of the larger cruise liners. Yet, at the same time it provided them with one of the most remarkable views Silva had ever seen. To their left was the shattered remains of Blackthorn Station inclined at a peculiar angle, in the centre was the system’s main star, Teurino, while to their right the other planets stretched away into the darkness.

  “Does this place get used much?” Silva asked.

  “Not much, no. Generally, only when we’re coming into a new port and, to be honest, not a lot even then. The captain likes to use it for PR opportunities, but that’s about it.”

  “Sort of place you might like to bring a date,” Silva pointed out. She hadn’t missed the way that Farnese had been looking at her since they’d been on their own.

  “Yeah, course, but that would never happen on this ship,” Farnese said roguishly. “As we all know, naval personnel are made of extremely stern stuff. Everyone’s too focussed on safeguarding the galaxy to allow themselves to become distracted by something as trivial as an illicit assignation.”

  Silva had to suppress a grin. She imagined that Farnese used the facility a lot more than Meyer ever did. Though, more likely, when he was off-duty. Which, she thought, explained a lot. Farnese enjoyed the privileges of rank but showed no inclination to push for his own command.

  Silva brushed past him as she went over to get a better look at Blackthorn.

  “You see, that’s the problem with navy regulations,” he moved to stand directly behind her. “By making something illicit you automatically make it seem that much more attractive.”

  “Are you telling me that you’ve never had cause to break the rules?”

  Silva felt his hand lightly touch her arm.

  He said, “Are you talking about fraternisation between officers or are you talking about rules in general?”

  She brushed his hand away.

  “Both.”

  “I broke more than my fair share of rules as a midshipman. But then, if I got busted, I didn’t have a lot to lose.”

  “And now?”

  She turned around completely so that her back was against the plexiglas. He was so close to her that she could smell his cologne. At that moment she could see how the combination of Farnese’s good looks and seniority might have had an effect on a good many young women.

  “I’d need an extremely good reason to put my career on the line,” he said. “But then, given the right circumstances, even I might be tempted.”

  Silva had had her fair share of attention in her time. And while most of her experiences aboard ship had been merely cringe worthy, others had left her feeling deeply uncomfortable. She took the opportunity to remove a fleck of material from Farnese’s jacket.

  She said, “So, you’re saying it all depends on who’s making the offer.”

  “That’s right.”

  The distance between them was quickly narrowing.

  Silva turned her head, as though she’d just caught sight of something outside and took several p
aces to her right. Farnese didn’t follow her straight away.

  “So what you were doing down on Blackthorn that was so important?” he said, gripping the hand-rail.

  “The political situation was all messed up. Didn’t know who to trust. So, in the end, we had to make a call.”

  “Was it the right call?”

  She tipped her head in order to momentarily re-align Blackthorn. “I’d like to think so, yes.”

  “Worked out fine for you, then?”

  Silva looked down at her rank insignia. “Fine for me, yes. Not so good for some of the others.”

  “Was that how you hurt your leg?”

  He indicated the neural transmitter which encircled her thigh. The transmitter had nothing to do with the actual fracture. Its job was to stimulate the nerves in her leg which might have been damaged as a result of the break. As soon as she’d come aboard the Renheim, she’d been injected with polymer nanoshells. Even as they spoke, microRNA molecules were being delivered straight to the site of the fracture, stimulating the bone’s natural healing abilities. The doctors expected her leg to be completely healed within the next twenty four hours.

  “No. That. That was just a stupid accident.”

  Blackthorn hung forlornly in space, looking like a partially deflated balloon.

  “Have they come up with a final death toll for this, yet?”

  “Last I heard, they were talking about twelve hundred, but that’s expected to rise.”

  “I’m sure,” Farnese twisted his head to look across at her, the play of light lending a particular rugged quality to his features. “How do you think your Captain Faulkner is going to fare over this?”

  Silva grimaced. Hadn’t he heard?

  “How do you mean?”

  “Hero or villain. Which one?”

  “Oh? Hero, then. Definitely, no question.”

  “I can think of twelve hundred people who might disagree with you.”

  “But they’re dead,” she threw up her hands. “I’m sorry, but it’s true, and it’ll be the survivors who determine his legacy. What’s twelve hundred dead against nearly seven hundred thousand saved?”