Tinaree: Trial By Inferno (Shadows Of Peace Book 1)

by Nic Plume

  Dean looked at Robert. "Did they max out their stim allowance?"

  Robert nodded. "And mine."

  "Yet, you’re nowhere near as animated."

  "That’s because I haven’t had any," Robert explained. "I’ve been taking naps in between their enthusiastic, and loud, exultations." He yawned.

  "Ah." Dean nodded slowly. "So, I can expect to receive a formal complaint from the medical department and the CO of a certain comm tech in the near future?"

  "The stim will be worn off long before she returns," Robert replied. "With all the hours she’s putting in for us, the least we can do is make sure she gets a good, long rest period before she returns to her regular duties."

  "Sir," Torrents broke in. The previous high-pitched, adrenaline-rushed excitement had left his voice.

  Dean turned to look at him. Even the young man’s demeanor had sobered.

  "I‘ve accessed the media network."

  Conti, sitting across from him, had blanched as she stared at her screen. Dean stepped over to get a better view of what she was seeing, Robert right on his heels, but Torrents hit a few keystrokes on his virtual keyboard and a large screen in the bulkhead over the desk sprang to life. It showed a smoldering wreck sitting at the end of a deep furrow in the ground. A group of armed people swarmed over the area and every so often aimed and discharged their weapons at something out of sight of the camera. The clip changed to a close-up view of a piece of armor plating with clear marks identifying the wreck as an Intergal craft—one of their SILCs. The screen changed again. It continued to do so, stringing together a series of short clips that showed different views of wrecks and squads of Traverse and hired mercenaries scouring the crash sites and seemingly shooting survivors. Sometimes it showed bodies and once even a row of bodies lying beside each other as if, while still alive, they had been lined up and shot execution-style.

  "How reliable is this data?" Robert asked.

  Dean wet his suddenly parched throat and looked at Torrents.

  "Well," the slicer answered slowly. "I’m still scouring it. So far, I’ve found multiple clips that show the same wreckage, just different angles and timespans, but the footage is cut and arranged to give the impression that those clips show different wreckage sites. Of course, the report doesn’t outright claim that, as the data is part of Tinaree’s public domain, so anybody willing to put in the effort could easily access the data and prove how they spliced it together."

  "So, they could simply be waging a PR war and tilting the news so people draw the conclusion they want them to?" Dean asked.

  Conti’s face lit up at the prospect.

  "What are the chances that people will actually put in the effort and dig deeper than the headline?" Dean asked Robert.

  "For the general public, probably slim to none," Robert replied. "The public domain rights have become so ingrained into Tinaree’s cultural fabric and its infrastructure that most people won’t even consider that there’s a need."

  "You’d think that after the Traverse’s attempt to introduce privacy laws backfired so spectacularly, the people would be a bit more skeptical," Conti said.

  "That’s just it," Robert said. "Having such a severe change to their public domain laws brought the whole planet to a grinding halt within days, and, facing a societal collapse, the Traverse reluctantly reinstated the previous laws. The upheaval was powerful, but too short to have a lasting effect on the public conscious. Once the status quo returned, so did the people’s thinking."

  "What about footage from the space battle?" Dean asked. "Have you found any of that?"

  "Yes, but it only shows the attack and its immediate aftermath, nothing after that," Torrents replied. "And since that footage came from Traverse ships, and therefore does not fall under Tinaree’s public domain laws, the Traverse controls what data is released."

  "So, since clips of survivors being picked up during recovery efforts doesn’t correlate with the message they want to convey, they didn’t release the full data," Dean said.

  "But, that doesn’t prove that they recovered survivors. They could have still killed them," Robert said.

  "Yes, but they showed the slaughter on the ground, so why not also show it in space?" Conti asked.

  "There are too many unknowns. And too big a chance that the Traverse is feeding us misinformation through manipulated data." Dean shook his head. "We need firsthand reports from boots on the ground."

  "Working on that." Torrents nodded. "We’ve scrubbed our previous comm protocols and are in the process of devising new ones. Once they’re in place, we’ll have to verify our backdoors are still free of markers and then circumvent any new NABs they’ve added."

  Dean looked at him. "Nabs?"

  "Network Antibodies," Robert supplied. "Defensive hunter-killer programs that keep the network clear of things that shouldn’t be there, like backdoors or covert communications." He nodded at the slicer to continue.

  "While they can be a pain in the ass to get around," Torrents said, "I already have tracers in place that’ll help ID them. It might slow us down a bit, though."

  Taylor’s heartbeat quickened, his neck hair raised, tingling with alert energy. He wasn’t alone. Somebody to his right was watching him. He turned his head. Black on black. Did that darkness move? Or was his imagination playing tricks? He calmed his breathing, willing his heart to slow and his useless eyes to pierce the darkness. It moved, slowly, smoothly, closer. He heard it—no, he sensed it—there was no sound. The movement was too smooth to be one of the guards, the body too lithe.

  His mind conjured up a memory of Salayla on one of her scrounging expeditions, gliding smoothly through the mess hall, evaluating its occupants and then angling for her target. He didn’t remember what Salayla had hunted for that time, probably a piece of equipment they had lost or broken. It was a favorite ploy of the trainers to keep the trainees short on supplies to test their resourcefulness and ability to adapt and overcome.

  A scraping sound snapped his attention back to his surroundings. It—she—wasn’t alone. With her came two more, but heavier, bulkier… Males.

  How did he know that? He couldn’t see and nothing he heard could account for his conclusions. It was more like a presence, an energy that left a specific impression in his mind. She approached slowly but not timidly, reaching out. He tensed, fighting the urge to get into a better defensive position, but the chain wouldn’t let him rise higher than to his knees. He’d have more room to maneuver if he stayed flat.

  She meant him no harm. Again, it was a feeling, an impression—this one more familiar, like that special sense or gut feeling he so often relied on.

  He started as she touched his cheek. The men split off. One crouched by his feet, the other by his head.

  A foot settled on the chain with a crunch, further restricting Taylor’s movement. Her hand moved down his cheek. He flinched as it touched the bruise Juvak’s rifle had left, but that didn’t stop her from exploring. His arms and legs would probably be restrained the moment he reached for her. She moved his head to the side as if taking a closer look, then moved down his body. Although he couldn’t see her, he turned his head to follow her movement. The moment he did, a knee landed on his temple and forced it back to the side. The rocky ground crunched in his ear, shooting sharp pain into his left cheek. As he grabbed for the knee, the foot attached to it slid back, taking the chain with it and settling the man’s weight on Taylor’s temple. The pressing pain in his cheek turned into a cutting pain punctuated by a sudden struggle for oxygen as the chain pulled the collar into his throat. Taylor tried to bring up his knees, but a heavy weight fell across his shins, forcing his feet down and out. The sudden twist in his injured knee shot agony up and down his leg. He screamed, but with his windpipe nearly cut off, he was unable to produce much sound.

  He stopped struggling. The pressure on his windpipe eased. He gasped for air, fighting off the roaring fireworks the lack of oxygen had thrown against his closed eyelids and into his
eardrums. By the time he had full control of his senses again, the two men had pinned his arms and legs. His feet were shoulder-width apart, with shins draped over his own. The guy’s feet were between Taylor’s and his knees on the outside, which meant his crotch was wide open—a perfect target for a nicely-placed punch. Not that Taylor had a free hand to follow up on that. His arms were arched around his head, wrists restrained by the other guy’s hands with at least half his bodyweight behind them. At least the knee had come off Taylor’s temple. The restraining grips were tight and might have been effective on somebody without much fighting experience.

  Taylor immediately thought of ways to slip out and take down his opponents, especially Open Crotch Guy. The other one was a bit trickier since he still had the chain under his boot. Taylor lifted his head, and the collar immediately bit into his throat. Not quite amateurs, then.

  Their lack of restraining material meant they hadn’t expected the need to restrain him. Or, they hadn’t expected him, which meant he might be a victim of opportunity. Opportunity for what?

  The female was back. Actually, he didn’t know if she’d ever left. He was pretty sure she hadn’t taken part in the struggle, but he could be wrong. Lack of oxygen could do that to you.

  Her fingers explored his sore cheek again, more tenderly this time. She sat back on her haunches and he heard her pull something from a bag, or a pouch, or pocket? She leaned back over him. Her warm breath flowed over his face. A cold gelatinous liquid touched his cheek, then spread across his wound as she carefully draped a cloth over it. A sharp pungent smell attacked his nostrils. He tried to move his cheek out of the way, but she followed his motion. It wasn’t like he had much room to maneuver. The pain in his cheek suddenly subsided. The tingling telltale of numbness set in, but after a moment, that was gone, too.

  Her hands moved down to his chest, exploring his ribcage and abs with her fingers, carefully pressing into muscles and onto bones, searching for wounds. She found multiple. From there, she moved down his legs. A few moments later she came back up and pulled his shirt over his head so that it was bunched up around his elbows. The guy released his wrists and proceeded to kneel on the shirt between his head and elbows, practically locking Taylor’s arms in place. They then proceeded to pull his pants down to his ankles, locking his legs down in similar fashion. His bioskins took more effort as they were compressed against his skin. After a short struggle, she used some kind of cutter to slice them open, fully exposing him.

  The female treated his contusions in a similar fashion as she had treated his cheek, minus the cloth, and then went to work on his knee. When she was done, his knee was tightly wrapped and nearly pain-free.

  She wasn’t done.

  Her fingers moved over his body again as if looking for more wounds. He soon realized she wasn’t looking for wounds. She moved away. He heard cloth rustle and then she returned, straddled him, and proceeded to take her payment for his treatment. The two guys tightened their grip on him.

  When she was done, she stood and stepped away. More cloth rustled, presumably, her getting dressed. Meanwhile, the guys wiped him down, cleaning off the residue, medical and other. If it weren’t for the rocks digging into his skin, he could have almost conceived himself in a health parlor. Place the parlor in the personal pleasure section of town and he could probably obtain the exact sequence of treatments he’d received, including the rocks digging into his back and the restraints, if that was his thing.

  The guys stood, and moments later, all three were gone.

  Taylor pulled the tattered bioskins out of the way and dressed, trying hard not to think about what had happened.

  Health parlor…health parlors are a good thing…and according to Botch and Tooley, the seedier the better. So, seedy health parlor it is…

  His body was pain-free. He wondered how long this effect would last. The cloth was still stuck to his face, a thick layer of gel keeping it in place. He rolled over onto his hands and feet and tested his knee. It could hold his weight with hardly a pinch, at least as long as the weight wasn’t directly on it. Kneeling was still out of the question. Still, that was a major progress. He might be able to walk without having to conceal his painful limp.

  He sat, letting the chain hang into his lap, and pulled the cloth off his cheek. It was still thick with gel. The edges were folded-over adhesive strips. Between them was a smooth backing with raised symbols on it. He recognized the center symbol almost immediately—it was the standard medical symbol Intergal used on all their medical equipment. This was a med patch, a fricking Intergal med patch. But, the odor was wrong. That’s why he didn’t recognize it when she applied it to his cheek.

  Med patches were reusable, so she’d probably loaded her version of med gel into it. It still had some gel on it, so the patch was still viable. On a whim, Taylor applied the patch where the collar had bruised his throat. The moment he did, the collar started to beep. He jerked the patch off, but the sound continued. Quiet and steady, each interval was accompanied by an ever-increasing ripple of current, about three heartbeats apart. The second was a tingle, the third a hiss, the fourth a gasp, and the fifth a curse.

  And then it stopped.

  Some time later, the guards returned, force-fed him, and locked him back into the box. By the time he was alone again, the ache in his face and the pain in his knee had returned, but neither was anywhere near as intense as before.

  8

  Prospects

  The daily pattern repeated itself ten times, three of which included a revisit from the female and her two friends.

  Each of the female’s and her friends’ visits was a near mirror image of the previous one, minus the foreplay of her hands exploring Taylor’s dressed body. The guys laid him flat if he wasn’t already and restrained him. She stripped off his clothes, treated his wounds, and then took her payment out of his sperm count. The guys wiped him down while she dressed and then the three disappeared again. Taylor would dress and sit back up, marveling at the healing and pain reducing properties of her med gel and ignoring the rest.

  Each time, she reused the wrap and med patch she had left on him the first day and each time, she knew exactly which pocket he’d stuffed it into. At first, he suspected they kept him under surveillance, but when she knew where to find the patch even after he had switched it to a different pocket while in the box, he came to the conclusion that whatever she used to navigate the tunnels must have the capability to detect the patch or a substance it contained. Mines often used scanners to detect minerals and ore, so it wasn’t too far-fetched for some of the workers to use some kind of advanced vision system. He wondered if her boss knew how she put company equipment to use.

  After their fourth visit, the trio didn’t return. Taylor almost missed their interaction with him. At least it had kept his mind occupied and off his growing dislike of darkness, tunnels, and being alone. Plus, her medical care had been excellent. His injuries were healed, including the suspected broken rib and his cheek, his burnt hand could grab things with only minor discomfort, and his knee complained only when he twisted it too sharply.

  After his tenth session in the tunnel, the guards took him to a lift tube.

  Taylor couldn’t tell if they were going up or down, but then the lift stopped and the door opened. They’d gone up. The light was blinding. Before his eyes had a chance to adjust, the guards pulled him out of the dark tube and into a courtyard of painfully bright sunlight. Taylor instinctively pulled back into the shadow of the door, shielding his eyes.

  He realized his mistake the instant he felt the bones crunch against his neck. The guard holding his collar cursed loudly. The other guard, who had lost his grip on Taylor’s arm, turned around swinging the baton he carried in his other hand. Taylor tried to duck to protect himself, but the hand still stuck under his collar kept him from moving far. Sharp pain exploded as the baton landed against his ribs. His arm clamped down instinctively and he was halfway through the body twist to pull the stick from
the guard’s grip when his instructions to his teammates flashed into his mind.

  ‘Don’t fight. Survive and escape.’

  The guard jerked forward with the baton’s movement. The other guard finally pulled his hand free and shoved Taylor away. Taylor released the rod, dropped to the ground, and curled into a ball, shielding his head as best he could from the incoming onslaught.

  The baton’s blows were quickly joined by kicks from the injured guard. Taylor took them as best he could, breathing through the pain as his mother had taught him, repeating her mantra, ‘It will pass.’ He had taken beatings before—it was part of the SF training—but nothing like this.

  It will pass.

  He tasted blood.

  It will pass.

  The world closed in on him.

  It will pass.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  It will pass. It will pass…Please let it pass...

  The world finally faded.

  It took seven days to re-establish contact with the TRM.

  Torrents bounced the comm signal all over the planet, pinging not only TRM members’ comms, but also hundreds of comms of other people living on the planet. To most, the message would look like gibberish or a random connection, he’d explained, as if somebody was pranking them or a glitch in the system had caused it. But, when received by a comm with the correct decryption key installed, it would clarify into a message—a seemingly random one that was anything but.

  Then, the waiting game had started.

  On day seven, Aksel Mitalius, Richards’ main contact within the TRM, finally replied. The news was as catastrophic as the news clips had shown. Squads of Traverse and hired mercenaries had scoured every crash site and executed all survivors on the spot. No ships had been launched to recover survivors in space. Recordings of the slaughter had been broadcast on the Tinaree Media Net for days.