Act of War

by R. L. Giddings

  Moments later, the door she’d entered through opened and a containment of Scarpa guards flooded in, bristling with weaponry. They were tall and immediately intimidating in their battle armour. Sunderam indicated to Morton that the pair of them should get out of their way, and so they moved to the back of the room.

  The guards regarded her curiously but were too caught up in their own preparations to think about much else.

  It was immediately clear that they had been rehearsing this exact scenario for some time because once the charges were laid against the door, they all fell back into pre-arranged positions.

  The sound of the explosion in such an enclosed space was shocking and their view of proceedings was largely obscured by the great ball of smoke which rose up to fill the entire room. With no optics to help her, Morton was left blind having to rely on the sound of shouted commands and gunfire to form any impression of what was actually happening.

  After five minutes the smoke was starting to clear and they watched as the Scarpa guard started drifting back in. While the majority spent their time securing their weapons, one of them – a man significantly shorter than the rest – came over and spoke urgently with Sunderam. Sunderam nodded several times in reply but, other than that, his expression barely altered.

  When the man had finished delivering his report, he motioned to usher Sunderam through what remained of the doors.

  Sunderam was eager not to show his discomfort managing to walk unaided until he reached the door arch but then he had to crouch to get through. The depth of his suffering as he bent forward was etched on his face for everyone to see. Once inside, he had to take a moment just to get his breath. Morton thought that he might have misjudged things, even coming this far, but it was evident that he was anxious to resolve this whole situation once and for all.

  The room was a scene of utter carnage, with bodies scattered everywhere. It appeared that two distinct factions had set themselves up at either end of the room before then setting out to eliminate one another. Leaving Sunderam’s side for a moment, Morton went over and checked on two of the figures on the opposite side of the room but both of them had been dead for some time.

  Morton found herself kneeling beside a collection of tables and chairs which had been used as an improvised fortification. It looked ridiculous, like some crazy children’s party game, but there was some sense to it as all weapons on-board a spaceship would, by definition, fire low velocity rounds in order not to breach the hull’s integrity. In such conditions, a table would theoretically give them enough protection, even against a direct hit.

  After checking that Sunderam wasn’t going to pass out, she went over to the far corner of the room where one of the Scarpa guards was attending to one of the wounded men. He had been shot twice - and recently - once in the thigh and once in the upper chest. From a quick perusal she reckoned there was a decent chance that this one might survive – but first, they’d have to stop the bleeding.

  She indicated that the guard should look to address the wound in the patient’s upper chest which he reluctantly agreed to while she worked to establish a tourniquet on his thigh. They made for an unlikely pairing but they quickly developed a good working relationship.

  It was only once she’d managed to staunch the bleeding that she saw fit to turn around, looking to see if there was any other medical support forthcoming. Instead, she found herself looking up at the stately figure of Sunderam. He’d lost the unhealthy grey pallor he’d displayed earlier and, apart from the fact that he was still holding his side, he seemed to be coping well.

  He motioned for the blue suited guard to step aside. The man pressed a wad of dressings to the chest wound before placing the patient’s hand over it, encouraging him to apply the necessary pressure.

  Sunderam’s voice dripped with malevolence. “It’s quite the party you’ve been having.”

  “I’m sorry you missed it,” the man said with some difficulty. “I sent you an invitation.”

  “My apologies, sir, I must have mislaid it.”

  For a second, Morton thought she’d misheard. It was only after she’d looked again at the face of the man she’d been treating for the last few minutes that she realised who it was. Mahbarat. The shock caused her grip to slacken on the twist of material she’d been holding and she had to work quickly to gather it back together.

  Even now, knowing Mahbarat’s true identity, it was difficult to reconcile her memory of him with the man stretched in front of her. For a start, she’d never seen him without his armour and here he was wearing no more than a grubby, grey utility suit. His breathing mask was cracked and was starting to come away at the side while his left eye was so badly swollen that he couldn’t open it.

  Sunderam made a sweeping gesture taking in the whole room. “How did all this happen?”

  “How does anything happen? I explained my plan to them: I intended using them as hostages in an attempt to persuade you to come in and open negotiations.”

  “Negotiations!” Sunderam laughed. “If I’d set foot in here I’d have been a dead man.”

  Mahbarat made to protest but a wave of pain swept across his face.

  Instead, he said, “I have taught you a little too well, I think. You’re right of course. I’d even set up a little ambush.”

  He indicated two bodies lying next to the door.

  “How long did it take the others to realise that you weren’t bluffing?”

  “Once I killed the first, it didn’t take long from there.”

  “Which one was it – if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Karrayar, of course. He was always so trusting. But he was the only representative from House Fortitude. He had no natural allegiances so it was always going to be him. The others seemed to realise it, even if he didn’t.”

  “I see,” Sunderam nodded slowly. “And were they quick to learn from his mistake?”

  “Annerat was the first to move against me which was a shame. In many ways he reminded me of you. But he was cunning enough to get Filibara to do his dirty work for him and that was nearly my undoing.”

  “But of course, you survived.”

  Mahbarat coughed, red foam bubbling at his mouth.

  “That seems to be the way of things,” he said attempting to sound dismissive but failing.

  Clutching his side, Sunderam lowered himself down onto one knee.

  “So, what happens next?”

  “I think we both know the answer to that: you will take charge until I am fit to resume my duties. Then we’ll take another look at this incident and see how it might have been avoided.”

  “I imagine that the insurrectionists will have to be tracked down and dealt with.”

  “I imagine that they will.”

  From their tone, they could have been mistaken for two old warriors reflecting on past victories.

  “Will I fall into that group, do you think? The Insurrectionists?”

  Mahbarat narrowed his eyes slightly. “None of us can be above suspicion, commander. I have yet to decide what the outcome of that investigation might be.”

  “Which surprises me,” Sunderam reflected. “Because I’ve already made my decision.”

  At that, Sunderam lightly took Morton’s hands and removed them from the tourniquet, only to replace them with his own.

  Morton felt herself being grabbed from behind before being hauled to her feet.

  “Let go of me,” she said, expecting Sunderam’s immediate support, but he seemed completely disinterested.

  Instead, he began to slowly unfurl the material which had been binding Mahbarat’s leg. The blood loss must have impaired Mahbarat’s senses because it took him a few seconds to realise what was actually happening. Then, when he tried to sit up, Sunderam single-handedly pressed him back down.

  For the first time, panic registered in Mahbarat’s face.

  “What are you doing?” Morton protested. “You’re going to kill him.”

  Sunderam turned to her, his e
yes clear and unrepentant.

  “I’m sorry, doctor,” he said. “Perhaps you shouldn’t see this.”

  He nodded to one of the men who’d been holding her, prompting them to drag Morton from the room.

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  Ardent was in a bad mood as she followed the young woman down the corridor.

  Corporal Acosta was one of the Marines who’d been stationed with her aboard the Dardelion. Webster had insisted that the woman transfer over with her when she joined the Renheim, clearly intending that she oversee Ardent’s day-to-day security – only it hadn’t worked out that way. Meyer had been suspicious of her from the start, refusing to allow Acosta access to the whole sections of the ship, hugely limiting her usefulness as Ardent’s aide.

  Ardent had felt sorry for her – it couldn’t have been easy being separated from her comrades like that. But she also admired her resilience. Acosta was there waiting for her each morning when she left her cabin and was always there when she left the bridge at the end of watch.

  Tonight she’d been waiting in her usual place and Ardent had been happy for Acosta to escort her back to her cabin. Only it hadn’t happened like that.

  She’d surprised Ardent first of all by actually talking to her. Other than the usual pleasantries, the pair had exchanged no more than a handful of words since they’d arrived on the Renheim but now, Ardent found she couldn’t shut her up.

  She couldn’t make head nor tail of what Acosta was going on about so in the end simply gave in and allowed herself to be taken down into the bowels of the ship.

  The whole journey had taken a lot longer than she’d anticipated and after a thankless day watching the events on Laxx unfold she was in no mood for such distractions. She just wanted to see this thing – whatever it was – and then retire to bed.

  “It’s just in here, ma’am,” Acosta said. She’d stopped at the door of what appeared to be an ancillary room leading off the main cargo bay. There appeared to be no one else about and there was something odd about the way that Acosta was standing, as she waited for Ardent to enter, which set off warning bells in the governor’s head.

  She’d had no reason to doubt Acosta’s loyalty previously but now, suddenly, she was starting to have second thoughts. No one knew that they were down there and Ardent didn’t doubt for a second that Acosta had the ability, if it came to it, to overpower her.

  Ardent stood on the threshold for several seconds, considering her options but eventually, and largely through a sense of embarrassment, she stepped inside.

  A waft of cool air hit her as she found herself looking down a tight corridor. At the far end, a figure detached itself from the shadows and started towards her.

  “It’s alright,” Acosta assured her. “She’s with me.”

  Ardent didn’t know whether that was meant to reassure her or not but felt that she had no option but to go along with it, for now.

  The woman who approached them was thickset, wearing a pair of unflattering overalls which had seen ample use. Her hair was cut short and had been parted neatly to one side.

  She shook Ardent’s hand.

  “Chief Petty Officer Rylance, ma’am. Pleased to meet you. If you’d like to come this way.”

  Ardent made a quizzical face then followed along. She could think of no good reason why Acosta might bring her down here but felt oddly comforted by the arrival of Rylance. Her no-nonsense approach suggested a lack of artifice which she found disarming.

  It was noisy walking down what was essentially a maintenance corridor. The walls around her pulsed with indistinguishable working sounds which were redolent with the life of the ship. The sort of sounds she was cloistered away from on the upper decks.

  After a series of sharp turns, they ended up in front of what appeared to be a large cool room. The sight of it was enough to stop Ardent dead in her tracks.

  “What’s in there?” she asked, struggling to keep the fear out of her voice.

  “It’s difficult to explain,” Acosta said from behind her. “You’d best see it for yourself.”

  “There’s nothing to be concerned about, ma’am,” Rylance said. “Nothing at all. We can leave you alone if you’d rather. So you can make up your own mind.”

  “No,” Ardent said. The thought of being abandoned down there was worse than anything she could think of on the other side of the door.

  She indicated for Rylance to take the lead and Rylance complied by levering the door open.

  The cold hit them straight away causing Ardent to catch her breath. The interior was split into several sections by long rows of dark shelving which Ardent quickly checked out.

  “What’s this used for normally?” she asked.

  “Mostly food-stuffs,” Rylance replied. “Once we take delivery, stuff’ll spoil if you leave it standing around. We stick it in here and then it’s up to catering to come and collect it.”

  “Mainly foodstuffs. What else?”

  Rylance stepped past her and moved down between a set of shelves. “Anything that’s perishable, really. Hydroponics store stuff down here until they need it but they’re actually pretty good. Don’t take liberties.”

  Rylance stepped out into a wider aisle. There were more storage shelves on the other side going back into the distance but she wasn’t concerned with that. She was looking at a trolley which had been covered with a tarpaulin. Acosta came around so that she stood facing Ardent.

  “Is this it?” Ardent asked.

  Acosta nodded, her face transformed. For a woman whose main expression up to this point had been a scowl she now looked incredibly vulnerable.

  Ardent motioned to Rylance who pulled the tarp aside and let it drop to the floor.

  “Is that an auto-doc?” Ardent said.

  “’Sright,” Rylance stepped around behind it, her breath ballooning in the air.

  “Why’s it in here? I mean what’s inside it?”

  “You’d best look for yourself.”

  The glass canopy had turned opaque where the moisture had frozen so it was impossible to look inside but on the auto-doc’s dark casing was a message written in clear white marker.

  ‘Captain Robert Faulkner formerly of USDC Mantis. Held in stasis aboard Yakutian Imperial Vessel Serrayu.’

  Beneath this was a date which was six days old. Under this was a signature with a name printed beneath.

  Surgeon Captain Elsbeth Morton

  Ardent pointed numbly at the message. “Is this for real?”

  Rylance shrugged. “We can’t confirm whether it really is Captain Faulkner, but there is a body in there.”

  “Oh my God! And is he alive?”

  “We’ve detected a baseline pulse but not much else, if I’m honest. You think it’s some kind of joke?”

  Ardent rubbed at the frosted glass but barely made an impression.

  “How did it end up in here?”

  “We got a signal lock on it and then a service-bot was instructed to retrieve it. Straightforward enough, really.”

  “We need to alert Captain Meyer,” she insisted. “Straightaway.”

  Neither Acosta nor Rylance moved.

  “What’s the matter?” Ardent said.

  The pair of them looked at one another.

  “We did that already,” Rylance said. “Told the captain, I mean. He was very clear about what he wanted us to do with it. We’ve got a cargo launcher down here. Intended for ship to ship transfers. Got some real oomphf! Well, every couple of weeks we put together a container of hazardous waste and stick it in the launcher.”

  Ardent couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  “You’re telling me that he wants you to fire this thing off into space? Without even checking it?”

  Rylance considered her next few words very carefully indeed.

  “Captain Meyer’s orders were very explicit: we were to include the auto-doc in our next despatch but not to list it on the launch manifest.”

  Ardent was suddenly very angry.


  “Have you launched those other waste materials yet?”

  “Not yet,” Rylance admitted. “I wanted the chance to speak with you first.”

  “Then I suggest you follow orders and get this thing loaded.”

  Acosta and Rylance stared at the auto-doc in disbelief.

  “Once we’ve got Captain Faulkner clear of it first.”

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  They brought down the shuttle as close to Nash as they dared. Webster wasn’t concerned about setting off any more mines – these were anti-personnel devices after all and he imagined that the shuttle would be equipped to deal with such things.

  He instructed the pilot to set down between Nash and the Da’al camp. He didn’t want to give them the opportunity to take pot-shots at them once they’d decamped. But what he hadn’t considered was the amount of down-draft created by the shuttle. It was strong enough to pummel Nash where he stood and he visibly struggled to remain upright. He’d only have to make one misstep in order to trigger the arming mechanism.

  Wouldn’t that be the perfect irony: if Nash’d waited all this time only to get blown up now. Webster’s stupidity seemed to know no bounds.

  He waited until the engines had started powering down before indicating to the pilot that they’d be exiting the vehicle together. Webster was careful to keep his pistol well out of the thing’s range – he still wasn’t entirely sure what they were capable of. That little demonstration back at the camp where they’d started trilling along with one another had unsettled him and he was conscious that if the pilot did anything rash, he was liable to shoot first and ask questions later.

  But the Da’al appeared to be aware of this also, moving towards the rear ramp with all four of its arms flush against its sides.

  There was an unpleasant burning smell as they descended the ramp, reminiscent of burning vegetable oil, hinting at some of the many differences between the humans and their new adversaries. Not for the first time, he ruminated on whether they’d ever come to the point where the two sides would see fit to share their diverse technologies. It had happened regularly enough following similar conflicts but for some reason, he doubted that that would be the case here.