Cry of War: A Military Space Adventure Series

by R. L. Giddings

  He worked tirelessly for a good twenty minutes and at the end of it he’d managed to dig a trench six inches wide and roughly eighteen inches deep. He needed something to break up the compacted earth. His fingernails kept breaking.

  Then he remembered that Dalbiri had a spoon which he’d brought with him. He’d been eating with it when the wallflowers had first appeared but then he couldn’t remember seeing Dalbiri with it after that. Surely, he would have tried to use it in some way to try and fend them off.

  He went back to their little campfire and stomped around, hoping to locate the spoon with his feet but he had no luck. Then he spotted a bottle of water sitting beside the fire.

  It was nearly half full and the sight of it reminded him of how thirsty he was. He sat down, unclipped the cap and started to drink. He’d managed to drink almost all of it when he spotted something glinting down in the grass. It was so close that all he had to do was stretch out and grab it. It was Dalbiri’s spoon.

  It was a decent size with a wide head. He remembered how infantrymen had a habit of visiting one another while they were cooking and how it was acceptable to ‘sample’ one another’s food. You were only ever allowed one ‘sample’ though, which was why infantrymen and women were constantly on the look-out for a good-sized spoon. And this one was no different.

  Pausing only to finish the water, Webster re-traced his steps back to where Dalbiri had disappeared. The simple sight of the hole he’d dug depressed him greatly and he looked up to scrutinise the sky. The sun was just starting to appear, staining the sky a soft purplish tone.

  Which was ridiculous. They were on a spaceship, after all. None of this was real.

  And yet it felt real.

  Getting down on his knees, he drove the spoon into the tightly packed earth and began dragging it backwards, using his other hand to shovel up what was produced.

  The ground felt real enough, although it didn’t explain how Dalbiri had managed to disappear so completely. It had all seemed so plausible but, on reflection, it now seemed ridiculous. How could he disappear like that? And if he had been pulled down into the earth, where was he? There was absolutely no sign of him.

  As he continued to dig, he reasoned that there had to be a point where the soil stopped and the spaceship started. All he had to do was to dig deeply enough. Only that was taking too long and the thought of finding his friend dead, his mouth full of soil from where he’d been fighting for breath, filled him with dread.

  But then, if the people on board had wanted him dead, why go to such extreme lengths? They’d have done as well simply by cutting off the oxygen supply. Though, by doing that, they’d be effectively sentencing them both to death. So, was that what they wanted? To keep only one of them alive?

  It made sense that they were interested in Dalbiri. Hadn’t it been his subconscious mind they’d trawled through to come up with this take on rural Tuscany, after all?

  Whatever their plan might be, Webster resolved that he wouldn’t rest until he’d found Dalbiri, alive or dead.

  And if he was serious about doing that, he’d best have a plan.

  Excavating this whole area was clearly out of the question – even with the right tools, it would be a mammoth task. So, he decided to compromise. He jumped down into the trench he’d dug and measured it against his leg.

  It was slightly deeper than the top of his knee.

  Right. He’d keep digging until the top of the hole came level with his waist, at which point he’d re-evaluate.

  But first, he’d have to widen the trench so that he could kneel down. So, taking the spoon in both hands, he began to dig.

  *

  Webster had been working on his hole for six hours when he was forced to stop.

  He’d managed to dig out a section which, when he stood up in it, came to about the top of his thigh. He should have been pleased with his work but instead, he was deeply frustrated. His knuckles and wrists had been rubbed raw from all the digging and his neck and back were begging him to stop. But what was really getting to him was his thirst. He’d been sweating profusely from his exertions and had at first tried to ignore his dry throat but now he was starting to realise that he was quickly becoming dehydrated. His head was pounding and, if he stood up too quickly, he became lightheaded.

  So, while he wanted to press on – he was convinced that the ground couldn’t go down much further – he had to be realistic. He couldn’t go on forever. He needed to locate some water before the lack of hydration really started to impact on his abilities. And, while he had no clear idea where he might find some, he did at least know where a bottle could be found. Back at the campfire.

  Before he clambered out, he stamped his foot down on the bottom of the hole hoping to hear something encouraging. But he was to be disappointed. The ground sounded as solid as it ever had. There was nothing down there to give him any hope whatsoever.

  He dropped the spoon back into the hole and then, bracing his hands on either side, he managed to get a knee onto the side and from there he was able to climb out. It was a beautiful morning and the view down into the valley was so stunning that he instantly resolved to take his bottle down there to see if he could find a stream or something.

  As he started back towards the campfire he shook his head in disbelief. What was he thinking? Clearly, he was becoming delusional. That wasn’t a real valley, down there. It was some kind of illusion. The chances that there’d be a stream running down were highly unlikely. It was more likely that, at some point, he’d simply run into a wall of some kind. An obstruction which separated this area off from the rest of the ship.

  He was still shaking his head when he bent down to pick up the bottle.

  If he couldn’t find any water in here, he would be forced to try and re-trace his steps back through the body of the main ship. Not that he thought that that would be easy. There was plenty of water back in the room they’d first sheltered in, if only he could find his way back without getting lost. The whole place was like a labyrinth, much larger and more complex than they’d first realised.

  Without thinking, he unclipped the top of the bottle and raised it to his lips, intent on draining the very last few drops in order to just wet his throat.

  Only the bottle was completely empty. Except for a note.

  It had been written on a sheet of plain paper, folded twice and then slipped inside the bottle. He managed to get a finger inside the neck of the bottle and angle it in such a way that he was able to tease the top of the note out.

  Then it was just a matter of hooking his little finger inside before he was able to pull it clear. He found that it helped if he turned the bottle upside down and just tugged.

  When he had it clear, he saw that his first impression had been wrong. There was still some moisture inside the bottle which had soaked into the back of the note. It had been that which had made the paper soggy so that it had clung more readily to the inside of the bottle.

  He unfolded the note carefully before holding it up to read. It was handwritten, which surprised him.

  Webster, it said.

  You’re wasting your time digging.

  That was the first line and it froze him to the spot.

  Had someone been watching him this whole time? He looked all around him trying to see where they might have hidden a camera. The most likely place was over in the olive trees but he didn’t fancy searching through there.

  He decided to read on.

  You’d do better to look for me in the library. That’s where you’re most likely to find me. In the Horticulture Section.

  Yours,

  Dalbiri

  Well, he thought, I’d lay money that Dalbiri had had no hand in writing that.

  For one thing, who referred to themselves simply by their surname? No, he imagined that whoever it was that had been watching them had picked up on them using one another’s surnames. The reason they hadn’t used their Christian names was because their observer didn’t know what they wer
e.

  And what was all this about a library?

  The concept of having books physically gathered in one place had gone out of fashion two hundred years ago.

  What would an alien intelligence do with actual books anyway?

  *

  Winterson watched the events play out from the comfort of his hospital bed.

  Vincenzi was there, as was Duvall who stood in the corner looking as though he were half-asleep, though with Duvall, appearances were often deceiving.

  Winterson assumed that Vincenzi had come to keep an eye on him for this first engagement. Make sure that he didn’t start sending off directives to Kerrigan once the action got underway. It was important for the bridge crew to stay focussed at a time like this and Vincenzi knew that Kerrigan would have enough to think about without being second guessed by his superior.

  Winterson knew this as well, but he wanted to stay in contact just in case things started to go against them. Only now he’d have to filter everything through Vincenzi.

  “What’s happening now?” Vincenzi asked in a loud voice, pointing at the screen. “I find this first bit all very confusing.”

  Not that Vincenzi was confused in the slightest. He knew exactly what was going on – he hadn’t climbed the ladder to Commander without knowing how ships formed up prior to an engagement – but he wanted to check that Winterson was following everything that was going on. He was still trying to ascertain to what extent his boss’s mental faculties had been affected when the bridge had been destroyed, which meant that Winterson had to work doubly hard to try and convince him otherwise.

  “Captain Kerrigan is trying to get all his ducks in order,” Winterson said. “Though God knows what the captain of the Tyr is making of all this.”

  “He’s probably enjoying it. The longer we delay, the better it suits him.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Have you seen his battle plan?” Vincenzi asked. “Kerrigan’s, I mean, not this other fellow.”

  “I’ve glanced at it, yes.”

  In truth, Winterson had gone over it in some considerable detail. He would have liked to have spent even more time on it but lately he’d been having trouble concentrating for sustained periods. He’d been studying the armaments on the Hudson at one point and had briefly closed his eyes. Next thing it was morning, the nurse had arrived with breakfast and his plans had disappeared. He suspected Duvall of having taken them but couldn’t quite bring himself to challenge the big man over it.

  Vincenzi tipped his head to one side and spoke into the microphone that had been set up earlier. “Could we see the current battle formations, please?”

  The lights in the room dimmed and a three-dimensional projection of the opening gambit appeared in front of them. Because they didn’t want to interrupt the action on the bridge, Vincenzi had set up a link to the battle bridge which would relay all the necessary information directly to them.

  They were fielding five ships in all, which were facing the Tyr which was rendered in vibrant red.

  Hudson and Blackbeard ranged alongside The Naked Spur.

  Santiago in blue, was over on their starboard side while the Molly Maguire, in green, was on their port side. Both were moving to engage the enemy.

  CHAPTER 9

  Faulkner took another bite of his bacon roll.

  He hadn’t realised how hungry he’d become and had wolfed down the first one without taking the time to enjoy it. So now he was savoring the experience, pausing only to wipe a dab of ketchup off his chin.

  McNeill, who had approached his roll as though he thought it might explode, was just starting to get the hang of eating one.

  It had been a trick popular with old Doc Martin, a captain who Faulkner had served under for four years. Martin had been fond of telling anyone who’d listen why it was that Neanderthal Man’s brain doubled in size once he’d learned how to light a fire. He claimed that it came about as a result of Neanderthal Man learning how to cook his meat. This allowed him access to fats and proteins his body couldn’t process in their uncooked state. And, as a result, his brain doubled in size.

  Martin maintained that if you were ever faced with a difficult decision, the simple act of eating a bacon roll – with its winning combination of carbohydrates, animal fats and carcinogens - might well provide you with the break-through you needed. Either that, or it just tasted good.

  Unfortunately, one or two of Faulkner’s officers didn’t seem to agree with this line of thinking, Schwartz being one of them. She’d passed up on the bacon idea in favor of eating a fresh avocado. Faulkner could just about handle that but felt that she’d then compounded her error by eating the thing with a spoon.

  Regardless of what they chose to eat, Faulkner felt that the simple act of having food delivered to the bridge had worked. It had helped to distract his people from their duties long enough for them to be able to take a well-earned break. And, after all they’d just been through, he thought that that could only be a good thing. Maintaining morale was, as far as he was concerned, just as important as maintaining good discipline. In fact, he contended, you rarely found one without the other. The crew had to believe in whatever strictures were being imposed upon them and, so long as they all felt that they were going through this together, then they couldn’t help but be brought together as a team.

  It wasn’t Faulkner’s job to enforce his will upon the crew. His job, as he saw it, was simply to facilitate both officers and NCOs so that they could work together as effectively as possible. And, if that meant that he had to reward them every so often, then so much the better.

  “Captain?” McNeill was mopping at the sides of his mouth with a napkin. “I think we may have something.”

  “What? Have you found her?”

  “Not yet,” he said, eager not to overstate his case. “But there has been a significant development.”

  “I think you’d better explain.”

  “I’d love to, sir, but my brain’s a little fried at the moment,” McNeill waved over one of the junior officers. “But allow me to introduce you to Ensign Xiong.”

  “Ensign,” Faulkner nodded as Schwartz moved over to join him. “What do you have for us?”

  The young woman took a moment to smooth her long dark hair down before she began,

  “Sir, Lieutenant McNeill had me looking for possible long range scanning operations in and around Topeka.”

  “Topeka?”

  Topeka was the next planet along. The last one standing between them and Iscaria.

  “And what did you find?”

  “Quite a few operators utilise such scans. The only problem is that most of these are concentrated on either Iscaria or Blackthorn itself.”

  “Makes sense,” he said. This was where the bulk of their trade would be coming from, after all. Then he realised what Xiong was implying. “Most of them, but not all?”

  “That’s right, sir. Two are currently monitoring Laxx while there’s a scientific station focussed on the gas giant, Ares. You’d be surprised how much there is out there once you…”

  “Yes, I’m sure. But how does this affect us?”

  “BireX is one of the companies operating one of these long-range scans. It’s a small mining company which was taken over a few years ago by McEwan Industries.”

  “And this helps us how?”

  “McEwan Industries was set up by Ian McEwan whose daughter is Bethan McEwan.”

  “Bethan McEwan?” Faulkner mused. “That sounds familiar. Should it?”

  “Isn’t she the captain of…” Schwartz seemed to have suddenly run out of words.

  “The Charles W Morgan,” Faulkner said. “The ship that the Da’al destroyed earlier.”

  This revelation sobered them all up.

  “That’s right, sir,” Xiong went on. “With Lieutenant McNeill’s approval, I approached the company’s CEO. Fergus McEwan.”

  Schwartz nodded. “Is that her brother?”

  “That’s right, ma’am. I to
ld him what’s been happening, and he said that he’d be only too glad to help us.”

  “I’m still not getting the significance of all this,” Faulkner said, looking to McNeill. “Am I missing something?”

  “Mr McEwan has agreed to hand over control of his scans to us,” McNeill said, by way of clarification. “For the time being, that is.”

  Faulkner shrugged, still none the wiser.

  “Let me get this straight,” Schwartz said. “He’s letting us use them so that we can search for the Loki?”

  “Which will have to by-pass Topeka in order to get to the gate,” Xiong said.

  “Okay,” Faulkner clapped his hands together. “So, what are we waiting for?”

  Xiong gave them all a beatific smile.

  “That’s the thing,” she said, indicating the master clock. “We started monitoring seven minutes ago.”

  “Thank you, Ensign, that’s sterling work,” McNeill said before turning to Faulkner. “It’s just as you said, sir. We might not have the capacity to track the Loki from where we are but a massive commercial concern like McEwan Industries? They’re going to be all over this.”

  *

  They all breathed a huge sigh of relief as they stepped into Peter the Great’s hold, the interior door slowly edging shut behind them. That wasn’t an experience any of them wanted to repeat in a hurry.

  She had to admit that this whole take-over had been artfully handled. From the way that the raiders had managed to sneak the second shuttle on-board, to cutting off the oxygen supply in the cargo hold and now separating them up into compliant groups - it had all gone very smoothly. This was clearly a very well-rehearsed schedule. Even though most of these guys weren’t the sharpest tools in the box, they all seemed to be well briefed in their various roles and assured in what they did. There was no denying that. That was down to good organisation and solid leadership.

  LaCruz wasn’t sure exactly how much credit the albino could take for any of that. She imagined that his job was to kick ass and keep people in line. Which suggested that Saratova was the one in overall charge. Which meant that she was the one LaCruz was going to have to keep an eye on. If anything were to happen to Saratova, she was pretty sure that this little operation would start to unpick itself fairly quickly.