Act of War

by R. L. Giddings

  “We have provided you with a platform for your humanitarian activities, governor, as well you know.”

  “And I thank you for that, captain, but that’s not answering my question: what is it that you personally have contributed?”

  Meyer didn’t like that line of questioning one bit.

  “We are currently in the process of conducting a Search and Rescue operation.”

  “And could you tell me how many people you’ve so far managed to locate?”

  Meyer gazed at her steadily.

  “So far we have managed to rescue fourteen survivors as well as transferring over forty others to the ancillary ship, the Athena.”

  “Fourteen. Commander Webster rescued three times as many in half the time.”

  “And a fat lot of good, it did him.”

  Ardent slapped him hard, the sound echoing off the walls.

  He looked up at her in absolute disbelief.

  “I could have you thrown into the brig for that.”

  “Then do it! At least then you’ll have done something, Captain Meyer. We have families out there desperate for our help and you’re not prepared to lift a finger. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

  Meyer rubbed at his cheek, unsure now how to continue.

  “You think I’m going to help you now? After this.”

  “You’re not listening, captain: it’s not me who needs your help – it’s those people trapped on Laax.”

  Meyer laughed, “If you think I’m going to throw away my ship in order to placate your sense of guilt then you’ve got another think coming.”

  Ardent went across and opened the door as a cue for him to leave. “I can’t believe that you’d stand by and watch those people getting slaughtered.”

  Meyer made to leave but then he stopped himself.

  “As I told you before, governor: sometimes, doing nothing is the hardest part.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  They came for Morton at night. She woke up to find four of them standing over her. All Scarpi.

  One of them motioned for her to get up and that was when she noticed they hadn’t brought a translator. That in itself was worrying.

  She started pulling her clothes together but they had no intention of letting her set the agenda. One of them grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet while another tossed a blanket at her.

  They were in no mood to hang around. She tried to tell them that she needed her shoes. She even pointed to her bare feet but they didn’t seem interested. The one who had hold of her arm started pulling her along and it was only when she started to complain that Morton realised she was talking to a woman - the first one she’d encountered since entering the ship.

  Once they were out of the cargo bay, the woman loosened her grip, allowing Morton to walk independently. She was angry that they hadn’t allowed her to bring her shoes. All she could hear as they walked along was the simple slap-slap of her feet hitting the floor.

  They walked for nearly half an hour, through a section of the ship Morton hadn’t previously visited. There was a large number of Yakutians on duty even at this late hour but from their uniforms and general demeanour, she deduced that they were all officers. She made a conscious effort to try and remember everything she saw. Over the past few days she’d been working on putting together a map of the whole ship.

  As an officer, it was her duty to try and escape but her willingness to do so had taken on an added urgency in the last few days as she had slowly come to realise that Mahbarat had no intention of letting any of them leave. The fact that he had rescued as many of them as he had was largely down to some kind of desperate gamble on his part. Mahbarat’s strange obsession with Faulkner drove him to extremes. The Yakutian crew had been trawling through escape pods until they had found a senior medical officer who might be able to help them with Faulkner’s resuscitation. That explained why no other pods had been brought aboard after hers had been discovered. But this also placed a huge burden on her personally.

  If she didn’t manage to resuscitate Faulkner successfully, then there was no telling what would become of her and her fellow prisoners. If Mahbarat didn’t get what he wanted there was nothing to stop him simply disposing of them all. Certainly, his crew wouldn’t stop him – although Sunderam might have something to say about it. With no independent witnesses around there was nothing to deter him and wouldn’t that put an end to all kinds of potentially very awkward questions?

  The best thing she could hope to do now was to keep doing as they asked while at the same time looking for a way to get someone off the ship. It didn’t matter who it was just so long as they succeeded. That way, at least, Mahbarat wouldn’t be able to dump them all out of the nearest airlock without risking some kind of prosecution for war crimes.

  At least, that was the plan.

  The Scarpi took her into a wide corridor with eight doors leading from it. The doors were heavily armoured, she doubted that even explosives would be able to put a dent in them. The lead soldier moved across to the door on her right where a wave pattern was being displayed. He made a few adjustments which was immediately followed by the dull click and sigh of the door cycling open.

  Morton experienced a moment’s apprehension as she caught a waft of warm, fetid air. Then she was looking down on a crumpled figure lying on a simple cot.

  “Hermandal!”

  She threw off her captors and rushed into the room. As she got closer she saw that there were a number of surgical pads littering the floor, all of them stained with blood. When she turned back to scold the guards the door was already closing.

  “Wait!” she shouted. “I can’t treat him without my ----“

  The female Scarpi stepped forward to stop the door from closing.

  Morton squatted down and gently pulled back the blanket which covered him to find it had a large, dark blood stain at its centre. Hermendal was lying on his side. His pulse was thin and elevated, but at least he was alive. The front of his tunic was slick with blood and she had difficulty raising it far enough to examine the wound.

  He had a large laceration on his right hand side, just above the hip and, when she checked, she found a smaller exit wound located at his lower back.

  He’d been shot.

  She stood up and went back to the half open door, her anger threatening to overtake her.

  “Alright, I get it. You want me to sort him out. Fine. I’ll be able to stabilise him and make him comfortable but I’m not a miracle worker. If you want me to save him then I’m going to need a whole load of stuff.”

  She rattled off a long list of medical items while the guards stood and listened. She had no doubt that they were recording all of this.

  When she’d finished, they closed the door, trapping her inside.

  She turned and looked back at Hermendal. She had a lot of work to be getting on with.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Webster had been looking forward to their arrival at the check point, not least because it meant that once they’d re-joined the others, they’d have a chance to get something to eat. It had been a long while since he’d had to make do with an MRE. It was exactly what it said it was: a rationed portion. And while it might provide him with the calories and nutrients his body needed, the flavour was bland at best.

  He was distracted enough by the simple act of chewing as to not to have picked up on what was happening ahead. The other two fire teams had already gathered, standing together facing one another. At their centre, someone was kneeling with a figure standing over them.

  “Looks like Nash got to him before we did,” Markham said from behind.

  Nash reached down and grabbed the other man’s hair before yanking his head back.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” Webster held up a hand as he moved forward. “What’s going on here?”

  “Nothing to concern yourself with, commander,” Nash said, a note of warning in his voice. “Just asking our friend here a few questions.”

  �
�Okay, that’s enough,” Webster said flatly. But Nash still didn’t relax his grip.

  The man’s face was a mess. His lips were swollen and he had a cut over his right eye.

  “Mr Nash?”

  Nash shoved the man’s head forward before finally releasing him.

  “Have you searched him?” Webster asked.

  The toe of Nash’s boot casually spread the man’s belongings over the ice. “It’s all there.”

  “No weapons?” Webster asked. When no one responded he took that as a ‘no.’ “Alright. Get him up on his feet.”

  Nash, slowly scanned the faces of the Marines opposite, gauging their reactions, although he clearly didn’t like what he saw.

  He’s figuring the odds, Webster realised. He’s working out the best time to take me down.

  Then Nash relaxed, shaking out his hands as if attempting to fend off the cold.

  “Get him up,” he said, stepping back.

  Two men came forward, hauling the man to his feet in a show of obedience Webster found unsettling. One of the troopers bent to release the man’s hands which had been secured behind him.

  If nothing else, Nash was thorough.

  Webster stepped forward and handed the man his canteen. The man looked at him blankly at first and then used the water to wash the blood from his face. The black of his beard contrasted with the paleness of his skin. He was slim and wiry but there was something in his bearing which marked him out as being non-military.

  Webster indicated for him take a drink and, when he’d done so, he introduced first himself and then Markham.

  “Mister Nash, you’ve already met.”

  The man rubbed at his wrists. “If you’re supposed to be the good guys, I wouldn’t like to meet the bad guys.”

  “You must understand that we’ve been on high alert since we landed. We weren’t expecting to find any …”

  “Survivors. No, that much was pretty obvious. I watched your ship land earlier. Curious to see what you were up to.”

  “Why didn’t you declare yourself earlier?”

  He gave a laconic smile.

  “Wasn’t sure whether you were friendly or not. Still aren’t, if I’m honest. I’m Tim Hibbert by the way.”

  “Ah, yes,” Webster finally relaxed. “Doctor Hibbert. Part of the geology team, I seem to recall.”

  “You seem remarkably well informed for an imperialist dictator.”

  Webster eyed the troopers on either side.

  “I like studying personnel files. What can I say?”

  Hibbert’s eyes narrowed. “So what are you doing all the way over here? The camp’s over fifty kilometres away in that direction.”

  “Our intention was to drop two separate teams. One here, one over there.”

  “So what happened?”

  Webster filled him in as quickly as he could but found that he couldn’t bring himself to talk about the destruction of the Dardelion. Instead, he just gestured hopelessly.

  Hibbert listened to all this with a sense of weary resignation.

  “No other relief ships in the area?”

  “Well, there’s the Renheim.”

  “Captain Meyer still in charge, I take it?”

  Webster gave a weak smile. “That he is.”

  “Well, I guess we won’t be able to look for help from that quarter then. We have a saying about Captain Meyer: “You can always rely on Captain Meyer, he’ll always let you down.”

  “You said ‘we.’ Are there more of you about?”

  “One or two of us.”

  “I’d like to meet them.”

  “I’m sure you would. But I can’t take all of you. That wouldn’t go down very well.”

  “That’s fine,” Webster said, keen to broker a deal. “What about three of us? That suit you?”

  Hibbert’s eyes went straight to Nash. “Depends which three.”

  *

  As soon as they realised that the thing they were looking at was most likely an alien dropship, LaCruz and the others started moving up and out of the valley which housed the camp. They crossed a frozen stream which led them across to the main river, making heavy weather of the snow-capped gravel which bounded it on either side. The power suits coped well with most surfaces but gravel wasn’t one of them and they struggled to gain traction. LaCruz was relieved when they finally left the whole area behind.

  They were heading for a stand of windblown trees which stretched for about a hundred and fifty metres. LaCruz reckoned that they’d be able to shelter there while they attempted to get to grips with what it was they were facing.

  Before they had reached the tree line, LaCruz had already resigned herself to the dire nature of their situation. If they’d still been attached to the Marine deployment she reckoned that they’d have had a decent chance of holding their own against whatever came out of that lander but without the flexibility and firepower the regulation troops would provide, she was pretty sure that the three of them would quickly be isolated and surrounded.

  Then it would simply be a case of the enemy wearing them down.

  Really, they should have been spreading out rather than bunching together like this but, if they could make use of the natural shelter provided by the trees, then so much the better. If they managed to retain the element of surprise then they might still be able to make this situation work in their favour.

  She had to assume that whatever ship had taken out the Dardelion was still in orbit. The fact that it looked like they were about to commit ground troops at this stage suggested that they had a very real interest in what was hiding down on the surface.

  “We’d best hold up here,” she said. “Walker you take point over by that main tree. I’ll take the left flank, Barnes, you’re over on the right.”

  She’d expected resistance, especially from Barnes but neither of them said a word. They were no doubt too busy watching where they were stepping. There were untold exposed roots and broken branches lurking in the undergrowth and it would only take a small misstep to see them rolling on the ground. They all knew that if any of them went down now the other two wouldn’t be capable of righting them without drawing attention to themselves. They’d likely have to stay on the deck until everything was resolved.

  LaCruz had only just managed to get into position when she heard the dropship arrive in the valley. It didn’t sound like any engine she’d heard before. The pitch was completely different: more akin to something you might hear in the brass section of a big orchestra. It was a deep sonorous noise which seemed to resonate the whole length of the valley.

  They clearly weren’t concerned about drawing attention to themselves and it was that, perhaps more than anything, which unnerved her most.

  The Da’al were used to getting what they wanted, that much was clear. And they certainly had the firepower to back up their expansionist policies. The question was whether humanity had what it took to see them off.

  And it looked like they were about to find out.

  After they had landed, it took the Da’al troops nearly three hours before they started to de-camp. When they did, LaCruz was shocked to see them again. Just the way that they moved was off putting. It just seemed so, well, wrong. She couldn’t be sure exactly how many of them there were, they tended to clump together in groups, and the fact that their bodies consisted of conjoined sections made it difficult to count their numbers reliably. There could have been ten down there or twice that number, it was impossible for her to say.

  By that time, the sun was starting to disappear behind the mountains and she had to switch to thermal imaging in order to continue watching what was going on. It was going to be a long night.

  *

  Webster and Nash sat opposite each other in the tiny waiting area. They weren’t entirely alone. A woman who they had briefly been introduced to was working in the next room and, every once in a while found an excuse to come in and search through the cupboards. She couldn’t stop looking at Webster’s uniform, anothe
r reminder that this was a civilian rather than a military base.

  He wasn’t exactly sure where he was. All he did know was that they were in some kind of underground bunker.

  His original plan had been to bring Markham and Nash with him but the sergeant had demurred. He hadn’t gone quite so far as to suggest that this whole thing might be a trap but he had been adamant that he should be the one to stay behind. And so it had been just the two of them who had accompanied Hibbert back to his secret base.

  Now it was just a question of waiting around until they were called through to be interviewed. Webster hoped that they weren’t going to be much longer. He was desperately tired after all his exertions and simply wanted to find somewhere he could rest his head for a few hours.

  Twenty minutes later, Hibbert appeared. He didn’t say anything just indicated that they should hurry up and come through, as if they’d been the ones keeping everyone waiting.

  The conference room was about twice the size of the waiting room but that was still quite cramped. Hibbert made the introductions.

  Juho Kekkonen stood up to shake their hands. Tall, with a mass of unkempt blonde hair, he was constantly squinting as if the poor quality of the lighting was starting to get to him. Kekkonen was the chief engineer on the base. He was the one in charge of keeping everything running, essentially he was there to make sure no one froze to death.

  Next was Eldridge Dabiri, the chief archaeologist. Something about Dabiri meant that Webster had him pegged as ex-military straight away. Whereas everyone else they encountered appeared pale and under-weight, Dabiri, with his coal black skin and powerful physique looked like the complete opposite.

  Finally, they were introduced to Kate Marsh, the xenobiologist on the team. Marsh was slight and boyish, an impression reinforced by the way she wore her hair. She was a mass of contradictions. Despite her light dusting of freckles, her gaze was dark and intense.

  She barely acknowledged Webster and was downright hostile towards Nash.