Act of War

by R. L. Giddings

  “But she might still be alive,” Webster said, any attempt at discretion suddenly gone from his voice. “I have to at least try.”

  Markham leaned in and lowered his voice. “Sir, I understand how you’re feeling right now but you must understand that you’re not thinking rationally.”

  “I have never been more rational. Helmsman, bring us alongside that ship.”

  Markham had hold of him by both arms now, their faces inches apart.

  “Belay that order, corporal.”

  As gently as he could, Markham backed Webster up against the rear bulkhead. When he spoke, he did so in a whisper.

  “Sir, please listen very carefully to what I’m about to say,” Webster attempted to shrug him off but Markham’s grip held firm. “Sir, you are currently experiencing a traumatic episode. There’s a good chance that you’re in shock. In a moment, I’m going to ask a corpsman to come forward and give you a sedative. I’m sorry to inform you that the Dardelion is lost, sir, with all hands. Within a few minutes, we will be entering Tigris’ atmosphere, isn’t that right, corporal?”

  “That’s right sergeant.”

  “We are looking at a very bumpy ride so I would appreciate it if you would sit in the observer’s seat for the moment and fasten yourself in. Do you think you could do that for me, sir?”

  Webster’s stare was fixed on the Dardelion.

  “I don’t… I’m not sure. I’m not sure what I can do.”

  “Then just sit here for the time being,” Markham steered him across to the co-pilot’s chair. “Corpsman!”

  The corpsman must have been waiting outside the door because he came right through. The man rolled up Webster’s sleeve before administering a pre-prepared injection. Markham thanked him and the man disappeared.

  Webster watched all this as though it were happening to someone else. At one point, he wiped his cheek to find it wet with tears. He was embarrassed. Here he was supposedly in charge of this mission and he couldn’t stop crying.

  “How are things looking, Mullens?” Markham inquired.

  “I wish I could give you an answer to that,” Mullens said, as the first gusts of tortured air buffeted the shuttle.

  “You’re cleared to crew on one of these things though, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve got lots of hours logged on these things in space but flying one in atmosphere is a whole different ball game.”

  “But you have landed one of these things before, haven’t you?”

  Mullens was struggling with the controls which were giving every impression of trying to shake him loose. “I’d love to give you an affirmative on that, sarge, but I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

  “Okay,” Markham licked his lips as he absorbed this new information. “I’m gonna take myself back to the main cabin and make sure everyone’s strapped in, okay?”

  “That’s probably for the best.”

  *

  “We are so screwed,” Barnes was saying. “Absolutely and completely screwed!”

  “That’s not helping,” LaCruz said.

  The three of them had extended a line to one another for fear that the vastness of space would swallow them whole. They had used their cone jets judiciously but otherwise had done nothing which might overly tax their suits’ complex systems.

  They had watched in silence as the Dardelion had been consumed by the flames of entry. They had never even got so much of a glimpse of the shuttle, so were unclear whether it had managed to get clear in time. Whether it had or it hadn’t, it was no longer their greatest concern. They were on their own now and they were going to have to adapt themselves to that fact. The only thing preventing them from surrendering to the incessant waves of panic which they were all experiencing was the sight of the planet itself.

  Tigris was there!

  So big and bright and alluring that the idea that they wouldn’t be able to land on it somehow was impossible to fathom.

  Barnes, laughing at their predicament, seemed to be skirting the very edges of mania. LaCruz realised that if she didn’t manage to calm him down things were likely to go south very quickly indeed.

  “Walker, you carry out an MVWR on these suits ‘fore we left?”

  “Er, yes,” Walker agreed, the specificity of the question taking him by surprise.

  It was the first thing he’d said since leaving the ship.

  Military Vacuum Worthiness Review was a standard check for any and all equipment used in space.

  “Everything good?” she prompted.

  “Er, yes. Far as I could tell.”

  “But you did the full review, though. Seals, skin, hazards and cautions.”

  “Yeah. All four checked out.”

  “One hundred percent?”

  “That’s right. But you’d expect that. These things are all brand new. Never been used.”

  “Did you hear that, Barnes? Just like your brain: never been used.”

  “Yeah, screw you, LaCruz.”

  “I imagine we already are: screwed, that is. On account of you supposedly being in charge of all our ground checks.”

  “What that supposed to mean? I did my job. Better than you. Everything checked out fine.”

  “So why can’t we contact the shuttle?”

  Barnes was struggling to orient himself so that he could look at her directly. She certainly had his attention now.

  “Don’t ask me. When I checked them everything was working. Something’s happened since then.”

  “Really? Are you saying someone’s interfered with our comms – on purpose?”

  “I don’t know about that,” he said defensively. “All I know is I did my job.”

  “Okay,” LaCruz’ tone was more mellow now. “According to Walker here, everything about these suits is perfect, right? And you’ve tested all the other equipment and, apart from the radios, everything else is working.”

  “That’s what I just said.”

  “So, really, there’s nothing stopping us from making planetfall ourselves.”

  Walker snorted at the rich absurdity of that.

  “Say what?” Barnes said. “We were lucky to make it out of that cargo bay in one piece - as well you know.”

  “Well, that’s something we can agree on, at least. Would you also agree that these here suits cost a lot of money?”

  “Shitload of money,” Walker affirmed.

  “And we all know that the navy doesn’t like wasting money. So I’m willing to bet that the Five Mikes on these things are second to none. Would you agree?”

  “What are you talking about?” Barnes said.

  Five Mike was one of the Flight Test Schedules. It was an in-built training system which covered all aspects of the suits’ capabilities, from how to switch on the suits’ lights to how to initiate a safe landing. It covered everything.

  The logic was that if you followed the procedures exactly as listed then the suit’s software would handle the rest. But the world doesn’t run on logic.

  “I’m just saying that these things wouldn’t have left the factory if the landing procedures weren’t completely safe. If they hadn’t been fully tested.”

  “Idiot proof,” Walker added.

  But Barnes wasn’t convinced.

  “Are you suggesting we try and land these things ourselves? Did you hit your head on the way out, LaCruz, cos that’s a sure fire way of getting us killed.”

  “Oh I’m sorry, Barnes. You got a better idea? You want us to hang around here and wait for a pick-up, is that it? Maybe stop off for a few beers on the way?”

  “We haven’t been trained for any of this. EVA. Entry. Descent. Landing. None of it.”

  “No, but the suits have and I’m willing to bet that if we stick together and just follow the Five Mike procedures, we’ve got a decent chance of walking away from this. Walker, what do you think?”

  What followed was - what seemed like - the longest pause of LaCruz’ life thus far.

  “Well, as my daddy used to say: it c
an only go one of two ways.”

  “A wise man, your daddy,” LaCruz said. “So that’s two to one, then?”

  “No, that’s three to none,” Barnes said warily. “I’m not staying out here on my own.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  The desk which dominated the meeting room was coffee coloured and as close an approximation to teak as she’d ever seen but the overall effect was ruined by the chairs. The Yakutian idea of what a chair should look like was more like a squat stool, complete with a rail for you to rest your feet on. There was no back support as such, making it impossible to slouch. Comfort was not a concept Yakutian designers wasted much time on.

  And Morton really needed to sit down. She’d been on her feet since early morning and was confident that if she pitched down over in the corner somewhere, she’d be asleep in seconds.

  But she still had some unfinished business to attend to and knew that she wouldn’t be able to properly relax until it had been completed.

  Things had not gone well with Faulkner. He wasn’t dead, but that was the only positive. The surgeons had successfully re-started his heart. At the low body temperatures that they were operating at his pulse had been glacially slow at first but, when no irregularities had presented themselves, after a couple of hours they had started to see an upsurge in brain activity.

  Inwardly, Morton had been ecstatic but hadn’t been able to share her elation with the rest of the team. They took a very detached view regarding the patient’s welfare which, considering their background, was to be expected. They were there to do a job which they did to the best of their ability but there was no changing the fact that Faulkner – the so-called Butcher of Tsvengir – represented everything they had come to resent about the Confederation.

  As the day wore on, Morton’s initial enthusiasm became tempered by the realisation that Yamada’s brain activity had peaked at about twelve percent, which was a lot less than she’d been hoping for. The Yakutian way would have been to install a cybernetic capacitator into his brain at this point as a way of stabilising his brainwaves. The Yakutians used the process regularly on brain injured patients as it boosted the brain’s capacity, giving the owner a certain autonomy by guaranteeing that they maintained basic neuro functioning. The price for that though would be to put a limit on Faulkner’s brain capacity while leaving him with the stigma of being augmented, something which Faulkner himself would never condone.

  The Yakutian surgeons had become increasingly annoyed by her unwillingness to compromise over this issue as they felt that they had gone as far as they could with this particular patient. If it had been anyone else Morton might have agreed with them but, in the short term, she had insisted that they anaesthetise him, hoping that, by the time they returned the next morning, things might have improved.

  When the door behind her opened she didn’t turn immediately. Instead, she took the opportunity to compose herself.

  When she did eventually turn she was both relieved and annoyed to see Bunayega standing there.

  “You said that you wanted to see me,” he said, his eyes darkly defiant.

  “That’s right,” she flattened her hands on the desk. “Would you like to sit down?”

  Bunayega moved round to the other side of the desk but stayed standing.

  “I called you here so that I could thank you for all your hard work over …”

  “You’re getting rid of me.”

  Morton thought that Bunayega looked like a particularly disaffected bulldog at that moment.

  “I’m sorry. Has someone already spoken to you?”

  “They didn’t need to. I knew what was happening as soon as you brought that Druhl in here.”

  “Druhl? I’m sorry, what is that? Druhl, I mean.”

  Bunayega affected an air of disdain. “There isn’t a direct translation. It refers to someone who is subservient, an underling perhaps involved in a mutually beneficial partnership. But a willing one. Parasite is perhaps a little too strong a word.”

  That’s interesting, Morton thought. Even though Bunayega had no idea of Hermendal’s rather unique skill set, he was already wary of him. And that before they had even been formally introduced. Perhaps she had misjudged Bunayega, he seemed more astute than she’d actually given him credit for.

  “Thank you for clarifying that,” she said coolly. “Forgive me, but is that the way that Sunderam himself views you? As his Druhl?”

  Bunayega’s response to this was so marked that Morton instantly regretted saying anything. She might well be exhausted but there was never any excuse for rudeness. Bunayega was the one who was being ‘let go’, and, regardless of the circumstances, he was well within his rights to be annoyed. No good would come from insulting him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean what I said.”

  “But that’s what you think?” he had an unfortunate laugh. “That Sunderam put me up to this?”

  Morton couldn’t help but frown. She really was too tired for all this, perhaps it would have been best if she’d left this until the morning.

  “Sunderam sent you – I don’t know how else to put this – to spy on me. That is right isn’t it?”

  Bunayega seemed to relax at that point, like a chess player whose opponent had just exposed their queen.

  “English is so limited when it comes to words like ‘spying’ and ‘surveillance,’” he said as he sat down. “They all have negative connotations, no doubt because you value your own inner privacy so greatly,” he drummed his fingers on his own implant. “A Yakutian would quickly go mad without the ability to convene with others. For us, it is a blessed relief that we can share our thoughts with those whose opinions we not only trust but crave. We don’t see any of this as being in any way intrusive.”

  “And on that, we must agree to disagree. I can’t think of anything worse than constantly having someone rummaging through your thoughts. It’s unnatural.”

  “Which is why your people are already doomed, doctor. Instantaneous communication is the way forward. It provides instant access to worlds beyond imagining while you still have to sift through everything manually on those tablet things of yours. I’d rather be dead than data-blind.”

  “Data-blind? Is that what I am?”

  “I’m afraid so. And for us, that is the worst kind of punishment. Being data-blind leads you to jump to erroneous conclusions simply because you’re denying yourself access to all the facts. And this is true of you when you assume that I am spying on you for the commander. You see, while Commander Sunderam is indeed my superior officer, in many ways he is also my social inferior.”

  “Oh,” Morton leaned so far back on her seat that she nearly fell over. She clearly hadn’t heard him correctly. Then the realisation kicked in. “Oh, I understand now: you’re members of different houses, aren’t you. And I suppose that your house is in the ascendancy. Is that what you call it?”

  Bunayega had his hands folded in his lap as if he was coaching a particularly challenging student. “That is correct.”

  “But then if Sunderam didn’t send you…”

  She didn’t need Bunayega to say anything else. The smugness of his smile was all the answer she needed.

  “Mahbarat? You’re a member of Captain Mahbarat’s house?”

  “The House of Attrition. Yes, that’s correct. And, while you may think that you’ve succeeded in getting rid of me, I’m afraid that you are in for quite a considerable shock.”

  Morton had a clear sense at that moment of losing control, of everything moving inexorably beyond her reach.

  “They’re removing me from the project?”

  “No, not you, surgeon captain. Your role is vital in this piece of theatre. You must remain in place until the final act. No, the one person who is most at danger from the failure of this task is Commander Sunderam himself. Did you not think it strange that our captain would have engineered all this just to allow him the pleasure of gloating over a defeated enemy?”

 
Well, no. She hadn’t thought that at all. Though she had believed Mahbarat when he’d said that he wanted to review Faulkner the nature of his many victories.

  Could she have really been so naïve?

  Bunayega continued, “While it is touching that you think that the captain engineered all this for a few minutes with a Confederation prisoner he might have had killed at a moment’s notice, the truth is less clear. More opaque. Your Captain Faulkner is merely the bait in a very ornate trap. A trap which was designed to snare Commander Sunderam himself. And it is one which you have helped to spring.”

  “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Commander Sunderam is a traitor who has shown more interest in saving the lives of foreign nationals than he has in the pursuance of his allotted duties. Anyone who doubts that need only look to his close relationship with a female Confederation officer.”

  Female Confederation officer. So that was what this was all about?

  Less about Faulkner and more about the Yakutian’s ingrained prejudice towards women?

  They were trying to compromise him over his relationship with her.

  Morton stood up and came quickly around the table, her sense of injustice giving her fresh energy.

  “That’s ridiculous. The commander is motivated by nobler virtues. He hopes that by sharing what we know about the re-animation process he might be able to share that knowledge with your people.”

  “Which can never happen.”

  Morton stared at him blankly. Surely, any medical breakthrough had to be a good thing?

  “Don’t you see,” Bunayega went on. “In order to survive a cryogenic freeze like this a Yakutian would have to sacrifice his neurological implants.”

  “But those could be restored, surely?”

  “Only partially. They’d be left as a pale shadow of their former self. Think of all the memories and knowledge that would be lost in such a procedure. The person who survived such a process would be hardly more than a zombie – capable of movement but little else. With their connection with their brethren destroyed they would be like lost souls, searching for a purpose that had been stolen from them.”