“Only one thing wrong with that,” Nash said.
“And what’s that?”
“What happens if the sergeant’s team succeeds? What if they do find survivors? How do you propose to get them off the planet?”
Nash was right. Webster had become obsessed with thinking about only one survivor – the president’s daughter. Chances were good that she was already dead. But what if others had survived? He couldn’t just abandon them.
“Might I suggest something, sir?” Markham said. “If you drop Mr Nash and his team first, then my team will have direct access to the shuttle. If there are survivors we can stabilise them before bringing them back to the ship.”
“But then the shuttle would have to make two trips,” Webster turned to Silva. “Have we got enough fuel for that?”
“It’s at the limits of what she’s capable of but, if we try and conserve fuel, then yes, it should be possible.”
Nash looked pleased with how things had turned out. This way he’d have twice as much time to explore the alien ship as he would have had if they’d organised the drop-offs the other way around.
For all that Webster wanted to spite the man, he had to admit that this set-up suited them all.
If it all went smoothly, that was.
The one thing that everyone was scrupulously ignoring was the fact that the Da’al would be well within range by then and if they chose to, they had the capability to upset all of their plans.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Morton was in charge but she wasn’t enjoying the role.
Considering that the rift between the Empire and the Confederation had originally come about as a result of the Yakutian’s obsession with technological enhancements, it was hardly surprising that the way their various medical facilities had developed was completely different.
She had found herself in charge of six very senior consultants, none of whom seemed unconvinced by Sunderam’s argument that she was the one with all the answers. But that was hardly surprising when Morton didn’t believe it either.
Since none of the consultants spoke any English, Sunderam had provided her with their equivalent of a junior doctor. A man named Bunayega. He had round, red cheeks which gave the impression that he was constantly flustered. When viewed from the front he looked as though he would have fitted in well in any Confederation medical facility. It was only when he was viewed from the rear that it became apparent that he had a neurological cap attached to the crown of his head.
His role was to act both as a translator and to help resolve any confusion generated by their use of widely differing medical terms, but Morton suspected that he also had another role. He was there to spy on her.
For the time being, Morton was satisfied to let the consultants get on with the process of bringing Yamada’s body temperature up to minus forty degrees because that was where the process started getting tricky.
What was most annoying was that the bulk of the material she most needed access to had been freely available to her on-board the Mantis and yet she’d barely had time to look at it outside of a recent paper on cryogenic regeneration. It was a topic that she had developed an interest in due to her early experiences but it was by no means a specialism. She felt particularly ignorant about how the new machinery worked in practice. Like a lot of doctors, her interest had been in the way that the new technology was applied, not how it worked.
Now she was having to come up to speed, and fast. She had managed to persuade Sunderam to let her adapt one of the existing regeneration chambers for her own ends. The Yakutians used it for the recuperation of injuries but she had other ideas what it might be used for. She was in the process of completing the plans for its re-design when she became aware that she was being watched.
She had never met Captain Mahbarat before and seeing him in the flesh she was left with no doubt as to who he was. He looked younger than she’d expected but that told her nothing. Mahbarat’s uniform was startlingly white with elaborate red and gold braiding across the chest and shoulders. He reminded her of a sixteenth century Japanese feudal warlord, a look which was set off by his peculiarly ornate respirator.
Mahbarat was accompanied by Sunderam who, though taller and broader, seemed somehow diminished by the comparison. Sunderam was showing him some of the sections of the chamber which they had already developed. With Mahbarat momentarily distracted, Sunderam flashed her a warning look but Morton knew enough about Yakutian protocol to know how to react. Crewmembers stood stock still in the captain’s company, only coming to life if the captain asked them a direct question. To approach him as he moved about the ship would be an act of supreme impudence since the captain would be well within his rights to cut you down in your tracks. The sword at his waist wasn’t entirely ceremonial.
Mahbarat took a long time in the main workroom, inspecting the various pieces of equipment which would be utilised in the final stages of the regeneration process. He then asked to be taken into the cold room so that he could examine Faulkner’s frozen form. He dismissed the offer of an environment suit before spending a good ten minutes in there. When they eventually reappeared, they made their way towards the design area where Morton was working.
As they drew closer, she realised that she was suddenly very nervous indeed, and felt embarrassed by the raft of rough sketches which littered the desk’s surface. A number of them were no more than rudimentary designs. There was nothing here that would likely impress anyone.
Sunderam made the necessary introductions, prompting her to bow stiffly. Then he took a moment to explain something to the captain, giving Morton the opportunity to appraise him properly. He looked a good deal younger than he had any right to be, with a boyish fringe and dark, liquid eyes. There were rumours that the upper echelons of Yakutian society had initiated their own cloning farms but she had no idea how much truth there was in that.
There was something about Sunderam’s body language, the way he was standing as if to shield her which suggested that he was trying to play down Morton’s contribution to the process. Not that she minded. All she cared about was safeguarding Faulkner. If there was any chance that he could be saved then she would be the one to do it.
“The commander tells me that you have been helping with the designs for this new cryo-chamber?” Mahbarat’s voice was high and fluting, in direct contrast to Sunderam’s bass tones, and her surprise must have been obvious.
“Surgeon Captain?” Sunderam prompted sharply.
“That is correct, sir,” she said, careful not to say anything which might imply that Confederation technology could in some way be considered more advanced than that of the empire’s. “I hope to be able to make some small contribution to the final process.”
Mahbarat’s eyes slipped from Sunderam and back to her. He raised his pinion stick in her direction. This was a peculiar affectation of the Yakutian officer class which allowed them to manipulate an object without having to hold it.
“I hear that you have previous experience with this type of regeneration. That you were active in re-animating one of your own colleagues. Is this true?”
Her reflex was to nod but she had been warned that such an action from a woman could have all kinds of unintended cultural nuances, so instead she raised her hands. The moved signalled her acquiescence.
“I was part of a team …” over Mahbarat’s shoulder, Sunderam’s eyes were full of pleading. “Part of a team which managed to successfully resuscitate a member of our military. Yes.”
“And you think that you will be able to succeed here,” he inclined his head in Sunderam’s direction. “Where others have failed?”
“The problem is not caused by a lack of application. Rather, it is linked to a lack of hardware. A simple gene therapy chamber - standard issue on many Confederation ships - would remove much of the guesswork for us.”
She was walking a fine line here but didn’t know how else to approach it. On the one hand, she had to be sensitive to not insulting the Yakuti
ans casual assumption that all of their technology was superior to that of the Confederation, while at the same time pushing him for some intelligence. If there were any Confederation ships in the area that they could contact, it would make her task so much more likely to succeed. She didn’t necessarily need access to the hardware they possessed – if they could only get access to their memory banks then she could hopefully improvise the rest. But, for some reason, Mahbarat chose not to hear her. Instead, he extended his pivot stick, bringing it down on one of her drawings.
“Are these your sketches?” he asked pointedly.
“If it please you, sir, they are.
Holding it with his stick, Mahbarat brought the drawing up to his face. “An untidy hand reflects an untidy mind.”
He placed the drawing back on the table.
“Are you confident of a good outcome in Captain Faulkner’s case?”
“As confident as one can ever be given the circumstances.”
“Yet he has a heart defect. What if it were to give out during the procedure?”
“We intend to monitor him closely to ensure that doesn’t happen.”
Mahbarat looked pointedly at Sunderam. “Then I hope for your sake that you are successful. The loss of Captain Faulkner at this stage could prove very damaging for all concerned.”
At that, Mahbarat straightened, his pivot stick disappearing into a ridge in his sleeve. He was preparing to leave.
“Excuse me, sir.” Morton said, sensing him stiffen. “But I haven’t had the opportunity of thanking you on behalf of my fellow crewmembers for the way we have been treated.”
Mahbarat took a breath before inclining his head.
“To quote from the Lan- al-Karoun: A civilised society is judged by the way they treat their prisoners.”
“One last question, if I may?”
She could feel Sunderam’s eyes boring into her but she ignored him.
“What do you intend to do with Captain Faulkner if and when we revive him? I very much doubt he’ll be allowed to return home.”
Mahbarat’s hand snaked out and she felt the point of the pinion stick against her throat.
He considered her coolly, as if she was a bug he was about to crush. “I will answer this question even though it is impertinent. You ask because you fear that your captain might be mistreated in some way, is this not so?”
Morton held his gaze. If he intended on killing her he would have to wait until after the procedure was completed.
Mahbarat went on. “You ask this motivated by your loyalty to your captain. An admirable trait, eh Sunderam? You wonder whether it might not be better to spare him the distress of a prolonged period of interrogation by allowing him to pass away quietly.”
Morton, annoyed that he’d interpreted her feelings so readily, simply nodded.
Mahbarat leaned his head back while increasing the pressure with his pinion stick. “Forgive me, Sunderam. This head movement – does it denote dissent or confusion?”
“The female is indicating her agreement, sir.”
“As well she might. Let me assure you of this, Surgeon Captain, if Captain Faulkner were to die during this procedure, you can rest assured that I would be the first to register my displeasure.”
“I don’t care what happens to me, sir.”
“I’m sure. But do I need to remind you that you’re also responsible for the welfare of the other forty two crew members on board?”
Morton widened her eyes as though she’d been slapped.
“No, I thought not.”
He wrinkled his nose at that, her distress seeming to amuse him.
“Rest assured, Captain Faulkner will be safe with me. As a strategist, he possesses one of the finest minds of any commander living or dead. I have a unique opportunity here which will allow me to pry into his thought process. Very few leaders get the opportunity to sit across from one of their idols like this. While he’s on my ship, doctor, you can be certain that he will be treated as well as any visiting admiral. What happens after that however is another matter entirely.”
With that, he retracted his pinion stick, leaving Morton to flop onto the desk.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Brigid Ardent finished showering and waited for the drier to kick in.
For a moment, she’d forgotten where she was and imagined herself back in her apartment on Blackthorn. There were no such luxuries on military vessels. With reality quickly asserting itself, she reached out through the cloud of condensation in search of a towel.
The one she grabbed was grey and coarse but at least it was dry. After drying herself off she wrapped it tightly round her body. She checked her appearance in the mirror, ruffling her hair to make it look less untidy, and stepped out into the main cabin.
Farnese was sitting up in bed looking very pleased with himself.
“Did you find everything you needed?”
“No, but then I am are fairly demanding,” she located a second towel and started drying her hair. “I once hired an entire spa just for myself. It was lovely just to wander around and not have to worry about bumping into anyone. Not that I’d have that problem now.”
“Did you not yearn for a little male company, though?”
Ardent raised an eyebrow. “That all came as part of the package, I seem to recall. Anyway, what are you looking so nervous about? Has Meyer realised we’ve been sleeping together?”
Ardent had been as discrete as she could be, allowing the Marine Webster had sent to look after her to escort her to her cabin before slipping out again. It seemed rather childish but she had enjoyed the simple subterfuge.
Farnese sat up straight, pulling the sheets a little higher. “I’ve just received a communication from another vessel. A trawler this time.”
“How many more does that make in our little armada? Five? Six?”
“Six. But that’s what I’m worried about. If the captain finds out how all this got started, I could be in serious trouble.”
“Well, we’d better not tell him, then.”
As she was saying this she couldn’t help thinking: I’m surprised he hasn’t found out earlier. Either Farnese was more devious than she’d imagined or Meyer really didn’t have a clue about what was happening aboard his own ship. She was certain that other crewmembers must have worked it out by now – the comms team would have to be completely incompetent not to have picked up on the fact that Farnese was suddenly receiving a flood of messages which weren’t being logged on official channels.
That meant that either they were incredibly loyal to Farnese or that they felt no real loyalty towards their captain. Not coming from a military background, Ardent was uncertain how these things worked but she suspected it might be the latter.
One thing was certain: this situation couldn’t continue for very much longer.
Not that that was her greatest concern. Farnese had agreed to all this in full knowledge of what might happen if they were caught. A charge of insubordination if he were lucky, a court martial if he was not. Chances were that, short term, they’d both be thrown in the brig.
Meyer might not be the most proactive of captains but he was a stickler for the rules. There was no way that he would allow Farnese to compromise his authority in this way and not do something about it.
If she’d been the one in charge she’d have thrown Meyer in the brig and have done with it, but Farnese would have none of it. Whoever his instructors had been at the Academy, they could pride themselves on the fact that their lessons on ‘Mutinies and their Unavoidable Consequences’ had been taken to heart.
She finished drying her hair.
“What’s the name of this ship?”
Farnese reached over to consult his tablet. “Odd name: Molly Maguire. Four hundred thousand tons of freighter. Ideal for mounting weapons on, if we could find any. Just what we’re looking for really.”
“I’m assuming the captain isn’t an owner/operator, then?”
“You’d be right there. Not th
at the owners would care, they’ll probably write the whole thing off on their insurance.”
“No doubt,” she went over and sat on the bed, suddenly all business. “I’m thinking we probably need two or three more ships to sign up and that’d be enough.”
“You think they’ll all go through with it? I’m amazed that they want to get involved at all. I assumed they’d only be interested in making a profit.”
He leaned across to grab Ardent’s towel but when he tried it, she simply pulled away.
“You clearly don’t have much experience working with miners. They’ve had a lifetime of hard graft, getting ripped off and double crossed at every turn. And now, finally, just when they’ve managed to organise themselves a really sweet deal, someone comes along and threatens to take it all away from them. That’s guaranteed to piss them off. The military aren’t the only ones who can bear a grudge you know.”
Farnese pulled a face. “To the extent of putting themselves in the firing line?”
Ardent thought about her father. He was so fiercely territorial in his dealings that he’d refused to accommodate other mining companies for fear that they’d try and take advantage of him. Even when such alliances often made sound financial sense.
“You have no idea,” Ardent went across to Farnese’s work station and managed to activate his screen. The picture alternated between the four Da’al ships they would soon be facing.
“Heay, how did you get into that? Don’t you need my passwords?”
Ardent shrugged. “I must have seen you putting them in. Don’t worry, happens all the time. Look, at this. They’re due to reach Tigris in the next couple of hours. Have we had any word from the Dardelion?”
She turned to see Farnese pulling on his clothes. He hadn’t taken it well that she’d been able to compromise his security quite so easily.
“Nothing, but then we wouldn’t be expecting any,” he said, fastening his jacket. “They’ll be maintaining radio silence from now on. No point drawing attention to themselves.”
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