by Nic Plume
He swallowed. The consistency was more like a free-flowing gel than a true liquid, with a hint of an edible flavor, although he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. He waited for the burn, ache, or any of the other telltale signs of poison to set in. Nothing happened. The guards dragged him back to his feet and shoved him into a rectangle hole cut about chest high into the bedrock. A metal door slid shut, closing him into a compartment that was nothing more than a large casket, only not as comfortable.
He was able to extend his arms into a half push-up before his back hit the ceiling. Not enough room to sit up, but plenty to roll over. Next, he extended his elbows sideways and reached roughly a forty-five-degree angle before he hit the rock on one side and the door on the other. Reaching past his head, he discovered that the compartment was longer than he was tall, but not long enough for him to stretch both legs and arms at the same time. Tonee would have a hard time fitting into one of these.
He rolled onto his back and took stock of his wounds. Split lip: dried up. Swollen and split cheek: also dried up but tender. Sore chest, probably a cracked rib or two, but he could breathe without a problem so no issues with his lungs. His knee was sore and swollen from the jab Juvak had given it, but it held his weight, so that should be fine, too. His right palm had an electrical burn, but his reflexes were pretty fast, so he probably let go before it caused any deep tissue damage. Everything else was soft tissue damage, lots of bruises, so he’d be sore and stiff for a while.
He ran his fingers along the edge of the collar of his bioskins, about two finger-widths above where the shock collar sat on his collarbone. The bioskins obviously didn’t interfere with the transfer of the shock collar’s current. Its conductors might have enabled the current to better spread across his body. Since the bioskins drew power from his body’s movement and heat production, it wouldn’t be too far-fetched to assume that the discharge from the shock collar used the bioskins’ pathways for a reverse flow of current. If that was the case, it might be a good idea to get rid of it. If it wasn’t, he might be wasting a good piece of kit, although at the moment this high-tech piece of equipment wasn’t much more than a base layer of clothing. Yet, its ability to regulate his body temperature might come in handy, and having that extra—albeit thin—layer would absorb some abrasive damage, though it didn’t do much for blunt trauma.
He checked the rest of his kit. His blouse was gone, stripped by the mercs at the crash site. With it, he’d lost the compact pieces of his emergency kit he’d tucked into the hidden seam pockets—compass, signaling mirror, cord saw, silk line, hook and needle. The rest of his e-kit had been in a belt pouch, which they’d taken when they stripped him of his belt. His base layer shirt, slightly more than a long-sleeved t-shirt, was fine, as were his pants. Both had a layer of abrasion protection and monitored external conditions and his body heat to adjust breathability as needed. The temperature control was nowhere as good as the bioskins’, but it would do in a pinch, and it was less of a conduit for electrical currents. He checked his thigh pockets. The left had been empty but the right had held his blow-out kit as was standard procedure, so if he was shot or otherwise severely injured, anyone rendering first aid would be able to quickly locate it and not be forced to use theirs. Both pockets were empty. That left him with his t-shirt, pants, boots, and bioskins.
Well, better than having been stripped naked.
He considered his options. The compartment was a bit tight for undressing, but it was doable. And it would keep everything confined so he couldn’t lose anything in the pitch darkness—not that he had much to lose. But, did he really want to strip naked just so he could lose the bioskins? What if the guards came back before he was done?
He was probably overthinking this, but it wasn’t like he had anything else to do at the moment. And he definitely didn’t want to let his mind wander to what might be heading his way next.
"The BCC was breached," Kilrian said without preamble once the hatch of his operations day-cabin had sealed out the cacophony of the BCC. He walked to the desk separating the office space in the front of the compartment from the sleeping area in its back and sat on the desk’s edge facing Dean before adding, "By a member of your team."
Dean had stopped a few paces away, with Carmichael standing to his left and slightly ahead, forming the third point of an irregular triangle. In the corner behind the two was a small sitting area, but Dean didn’t expect to be offered a seat. As Kilrian’s words and Carmichael’s stiffened posture indicated, this was not to be a relaxed conversation.
"You don’t seem surprised," Kilrian said.
"Commander Teak informed me when he relayed the intel Torrents dug up," Dean conceded.
Carmichael frowned at him, clearly unhappy to hear that Dean had chosen to hold back that information when he had forwarded Torrents’s intel. At the time, Dean had considered the data’s acquisition method secondary and known it would distract from the data’s value. He still stood by that decision, but he was surprised that it had taken the IOs this long to catch on to how Torrents had obtained the data.
Kilrian nodded in acknowledgement. "Could he be the leak?"
Dean considered the question and then turned to Carmichael. "What was the timeline of his breach?"
Carmichael looked to Kilrian for his approval before answering. "It started as the SILCs launched and ended a few seconds after the transmissions from the frigates cut out."
"How did you find it?"
"The files you forwarded included data from the BCC. Its metadata showed unauthorized access from a terminal outside the BCC. We backtracked the access to the terminal in Nick Torrents’s quarters."
"So, you realized the BCC was breached when Torrents’s files contained data he should not have had access to?"
"Yes."
"If he’s able to access the BCC without you noticing, wouldn’t he be good enough to cover his tracks after?"
"Everybody makes mistakes. His was to include his pirated data instead of officially released recordings when he compiled the files to be forwarded."
"I don’t think that was a mistake." Dean shook his head. "I also don’t think the BCC breach is the cause of your leak."
"No, but if he’s able to breach the BCC, he would be capable of accessing the leaked data."
"As are many other people in this fleet, I’m sure."
"But none of them have a history of breaking into files like he does."
"That you’re aware of."
"That we’re aware of," Carmichael conceded. He glanced at Kilrian again, but the Commander was content to watch the discussion play out.
"Wouldn’t it make more sense for a mole to hide his activities instead of putting them in the open like this?" Richards continued.
"Unless he is using his BCC breach to lead us off his trail."
"I’m not disputing that possibility, but I am suggesting you find true evidence instead of using a, albeit illegal, breach that aided the fleet as evidence of a breach that led to the ambush and possible death of dozens, if not hundreds, of our people. Careers and lives have been destroyed by much less serious allegations, so make sure the person you’re accusing is the one who deserves the charge."
"We are."
"Yet, you’ve dispatched a security team already." Dean frowned. "So, you’re using circumstantial evidence to justify arresting the person who, so far, has made the most headway in figuring out the turn of events and might be your best chance to quickly find the actual perpetrator?"
"I have to agree with Commander Richards," Kilrian said before Carmichael could reply. "I want Torrents and his ID closely monitored but left to work as Commander Richards sees fit."
"Sir," Carmichael addressed Kilrian. "What if his goal is to interfere with our investigation?"
"Then you’d better stay on top of him," Dean interjected. "Or, are you saying you don’t have anyone who can match his skills?"
"Of course, we do." Carmichael bristled at his suggestion.
"Then
that shouldn’t be a problem."
Kilrian nodded his agreement, input his new orders for the different department heads, and sent Carmichael on his way without further delay.
"You like to rock the boat, don’t you?" Commander Kilrian motioned Dean toward the sitting area and then retrieved a bottle and two glasses from a cabinet sunk into the bulkhead by his bed.
"If that’s what it takes to keep them straight," Dean replied as he settled into one of the two armchairs facing a couch across a low table.
"Is that what you were doing?" Kilrian chuckled. He filled two-thirds of each glass with the bottle’s amber liquid, handed a glass to Dean, and relaxed into the corner of the couch with the other. "How’s that working with your team?"
Dean half shrugged. "He’s getting results."
A sweet-and-tangy-undertoned cinnamon spiciness assaulted Dean’s senses as he brought the glass to his lips and allowed the liquid to roll over his tongue. It burned its way to the back of his mouth and down his throat before spreading warmly throughout his stomach. He smiled in appreciation. It had been a long time since he had some of his homeworld’s specialty export.
"Yes," Kilrian nodded after savoring a sip himself, "but at what cost?"
Dean looked at him. "Are you planning to have him charged?"
"For his breach of the BCC data stream? No, not unless he’s connected to the leak." Kilrian shook his head. "But that’s not what I’m talking about. You’re setting a dangerous precedent."
"Oh?"
"Allowing him to get away with this will only encourage him, setting him up for future failure. Not everyone is as unconventional a commander as you."
"He has a history of breaking into files, as Officer Carmichael pointed out. You expect me to fix your problem?"
"My problem?"
"He’s under your command."
"He’s assigned to the Cooley."
"Which is under your command."
"You do realize how many layers of commanding officers are between him and I?"
"Is that your excuse?"
Silence fell as they stared at each other. Dean drew out the moment, wondering if he’d been wrong about Kilrian. Was the commander too rigid in his traditional views and style of command?
"He’s obviously come to your attention before." Dean softened his tone.
Kilrian studied him a moment longer before nodding his own concession. "What would you have me do?"
"Ensure his CO doesn’t bury him like your intelligence officer tried to do."
"Well, that’s only going to work while the Cooley is part of the Task Force. She’s not part of my permanent command." He paused. "And here I thought you were working me up to push for a transfer release."
"I don’t have a slot for a slicer."
"That doesn’t seem to’ve stopped you before."
"Oh?"
"Robert Teak, for example. A Psychological Operations officer is an interesting choice for an adjutant."
Dean shrugged in dismissal. "I can take care of my schedule and communications, and I do know how to dress myself. Might as well fill the position with skills I don’t have."
Kilrian smiled at the off-handed ribbing.
"And why would I want to add him to my roster, considering the trouble he keeps getting himself into?" Dean asked.
It was Kilrian’s turn to shrug. "With your unorthodox operations and a PsyOps officer handling him, I’m sure you’d keep his activities in check, or even make them legitimate, considering your history with his grandfather."
"His grandfather?"
"Force Commander Alan Sutton." Kilrian took another sip, but his eyes, and attention, were on Dean. "You worked for him?"
"Yes," Dean readily admitted. "I was assigned to his command for a few years after I graduated." He let his eyes defocus. "But that was long before he became a Force Commander." He refocused on Kilrian’s face without offering further details.
"Assigned? He personally pulled you under his direct command and held onto you for five years."
"You’ve looked at my record?"
"You haven’t mine?"
"A little deeper than a cursory read."
Kilrian shrugged in dismissal. "I like to know who I’m working with."
"What else have you learned?"
"That some of your files are sealed." Kilrian raised his eyebrows. "S11, huh? Right. Our support branch has become a convenient catch-all."
Dean simply looked at him.
"Is your rank step at least correct?"
Dean nodded. "I am a Step 11 Commander."
"Good. I wouldn’t appreciate that kind of deception."
Kilrian met and held Dean’s gaze, then leaned forward, grabbed the bottle off the table, and refilled both of their glasses as if the interplay hadn’t happened. But his message had been clear, his tolerance defined.
This wasn’t Kilrian’s first go-around.
7
Encounters
Taylor startled awake. His knee throbbed, his body ached, and he felt damp and chilled. Still in the box.
He hadn’t dreamed it, then. Other details flooded in—the cold, hard rock around him, the sweet, moist air tasting of dust and destruction, and the distant and muffled sounds and voices. Are they coming back?
He hoped so. He wanted out of this box.
He hoped not. It meant more pain and misery.
He wished himself asleep, into a nightmare. He could wake up from those.
"If you find yourself in a tight spot, narrow your focus," his mother had often said when he’d struggled with one of her challenges. "Sometimes, the smallest step, or even holding your ground, is progress. Focus on your situation and set yourself goals you can accomplish. Your body can endure an amazing amount of pain and abuse as long as your mind doesn’t lose its focus on doing so."
A clunk and a swoosh were all the warning he got before hands grabbed him and pulled him from the box. Taylor twisted to get his feet under him, but only succeeded in softening his landing with his hands and knees. Pain shot through his injured knee, blotting out the sting in his palms. He muffled a scream.
Don’t show them what works.
Rocks crunched beside him. He tried to stand but was forced to his knees. The same two guards who had brought him down forced water down his throat and then dragged him through the tunnels again. After a short walk that was more a stumble and limp for Taylor, the guards forced him to his knees, connected a chain to the back of his collar, and left. Taylor listened to their receding steps, wondering what they had in store for him next.
At least with them gone, he was able to move. He needed to get the weight off his screaming knee.
Shifting the knee while it was carrying weight was out of the question. He couldn’t roll back to sit on his heels. Taylor bent at the waist. The collar dug into his throat, keeping him from reaching the ground with his hands. He leaned to his left. The chain allowed him to do that. He leaned further, reaching his hand out for the ground. In the pitch dark, he had no idea what he’d find. For all he knew, the floor dropped off and he’d hang himself. The chain slid down his left shoulder. He lifted his right leg for balance. Carrying the weight of his lower leg hurt like hell. His fingertips touched rock. Ground, not a hole or major dip. He breathed a sigh of relief. With some maneuvering, he finally sat. The pain in his knee eased, but not by much. Wrapping it would help, but the guards had left him with only his boots, pants, and shirt, and going shirtless down here appealed to him less than leaving his knee unsupported, even with the bioskins still on.
He reached behind him for the chain tying him to the ground. It was made of large heavy metal links, which explained why it pulled the collar into his throat. He considered different options to keep it from cutting into his trachea, but in the end simply lay on his back.
Able to breathe and swallow without strain, his heart rate and breathing soon settled and with the internal quiet, his external senses kicked into overdrive. He allowed their impressions to
wash over him. He couldn’t see, at least not to the degree that his brain could make sense of the visual input, but he wasn’t in complete darkness. He could differentiate shades of black, shadows among shadows. Not enough to maneuver by or even see his hand in front of his face, but enough to get a sense of his surroundings—the ground above him forming his ceiling, too far to touch but not impossibly out of reach, and the rock forming the walls around him. He wasn’t in a tunnel; it was more like a chamber or cave. No, caves were natural. This was man-made, or man-dug. He sensed openings, sections where the rock gave way. Tunnels? Or alcoves? He couldn’t tell. The guards had left in a different direction than they’d entered, so there were at least two tunnels, but he was sure there were more. The distant mining sounds he had identified the day before seemed omnidirectional, or maybe the chamber’s acoustics transferred it that way. Water dripped into a puddle closer by. Pebbles fell, dirt scraped, and the breeze he hadn’t noticed before suddenly stopped.
Torrents did his magic and wormed his way back into Tinaree’s network nineteen hours after the attack. His explanation of how a marker he had left in the system during his original infiltration allowed him to open a proxy connection and piggyback authorized signals between Tinaree and the comm nodes at the edge of the system sounded like a string of gibberish to Dean, but obviously made sense to the Intel Section’s comm specialist as the young woman nodded enthusiastically. The two looked like a perfect match, feeding off each other as they talked to each other across the small workstation crowded with their equipment, like VR addicts comparing notes on their discoveries in the latest game.
They’re probably star-spaced on stimulants.
Dean looked around the small compartment that served as Torrents’s quarters. Two bunks across from each other, each framed by lockers, and a small workstation Torrents and S4 Technician Conti had pulled from the far wall to maximize its available surface was all there was to it. Robert had been lounging on the left bunk when Dean entered. The right one had a scatter of mess hall meal carriers, one of which was used as a depository for empty stim vials, small containers of stimulants that could be added to drinks or food. He didn’t see any full vials.