Cry of War: A Military Space Adventure Series

by R. L. Giddings

  “You’re right,” he saw no reason to deny it. “And my people saw a little of it when they boarded that first ship. Though in the end we paid dearly for it. Still, that would pale into insignificance in comparison with having real tech at our disposal.”

  “Which is true. So, how do you propose we go about this? You have to concede that without our intercession, this whole affair might have ended up looking quite different. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Faulkner didn’t trust himself to say anything and simply nodded. While it was true that the Yakutians had immobilised Thor’s shields they’d done so using stolen Confederation technology. Of course, he couldn’t say that and, even if he did, it would be too easy for Sunderam to deny the accusation.

  “The day is won, captain,” Faulkner said. “We should celebrate that rather than getting bogged down in details.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. With that in mind, perhaps I might suggest a simple trade?”

  “A trade? What kind of trade?”

  “Quid pro quo, I believe you call it. I take the salvage rights for Thor in return for something which I’m sure you’ll find equally valuable.”

  Faulkner turned to his aides and laughed.

  Surely, the man had to be joking?

  “I can’t imagine what that might be,” he said.

  Sunderam leaned forward and gave him a significant look before stepping away from the camera.

  Faulkner just stayed where he was, his aides imploring him to pull the plug on the whole negotiation. They didn’t want any part of a deal which saw them surrender the rights to the richest salvage operation possibly of all time.

  A few seconds later, another figure stepped into the frame and the whole room was plunged into silence.

  “My God,” Faulkner couldn’t contain his surprise. “Elsbeth? Is that you?”

  She was almost unrecognisable. She’d lost weight and her hair had grown long. She was also dressed in Yakutian clothing.

  “Captain Faulkner,” she said and though her voice faltered, she managed to execute a simple salute.

  “You’re alive,” Faulkner said. “I had my hopes, but I couldn’t be certain. Have you been well looked after?”

  She nodded, struggling to find the right words. “I’ve been very well treated, thank you.”

  Faulkner didn’t know what to say. He’d been trying to suppress these feelings about the fate of his crew for so long and now they looked to be about to betray him.

  “And are there other survivors? From the Mantis?”

  “Sixty-four to be precise, sir. Though I can’t tell you much more than that,” her eyes drifted towards someone just off camera. “We’re on a pretty tight rein here, as you can no doubt imagine.”

  And then she was being bundled away again. When Sunderam came back on all thoughts of salvage rights had slipped Faulkner’s mind, though doubtless that had been Sunderam’s intention all along. Morton’s sudden appearance had triggered all kinds of questions. While she wasn’t wearing her USDC uniform, she also wasn’t dressed in standard prison fatigues. So, what was her current status?

  “As you can see, Lieutenant Commander Morton is in good health, though I’m afraid the same can’t be said for all her compatriots. Now, if we could come to some arrangement, we could expedite this hand-over quickly and quietly. I’m thinking of the families. By side-stepping the official channels, I think we can save everyone a lot of frustration.”

  Just the thought of who those other survivors might be sent a flood of familiar faces rushing through Faulkner’s head and he had to make a deliberate effort to try and block them out. At least for the short term. He had to think about operational integrity, and he couldn’t do that if he allowed himself to become emotionally compromised.

  Sunderam was trying to rattle him, to win the advantage. They both knew that just because the prisoners were physically onboard the Serrayu that they weren’t any closer to being released. Sunderam could still make things very difficult for them if he wanted to. With the two sides still at war, he would be well within his rights to take his prisoners back to the Homeworlds until a formal peace agreement had been signed and that could take years.

  Even then, the amount of Yakutian bureaucracy surrounding prisoner releases was colossal as Faulkner knew all too well from bitter experience.

  Such a process was never straightforward and, if it suited the Yakutians, they could drag it out for years. But if he could agree a deal with Sunderam now, they could avoid all that bureaucratic nonsense in order that he might be reunited with his old crew as soon as possible. Because hadn’t they suffered enough?

  He couldn’t afford to antagonise Sunderam now. He’d have to take a more measured approach.

  “Thank you, Captain Sunderam, for everything that you’ve done for my people. You’ve acted with great tact and sensitivity under the circumstances and for that you have my eternal gratitude.”

  “It has been my pleasure to provide your people with a safe-haven in what has been a difficult period for us all, captain. Now, before we go any further, how do you think we might best approach the thorny question of this Da’al ship?”

  *

  For all of Faulkner’s experience as a Confederation officer, it had been twenty years since he’d last set foot onboard a Yakutian vessel and a lot had changed in the interim. As well as his Marine guard, he was accompanied by McNeill and Ensign Smith, a female translator. As they moved up the access ramp and away from their shuttle, he was forced to re-evaluate some of his established thinking about the old enemy.

  Confederation officers were regularly told that Yakutian technology was inferior, several decades behind what the Confederation had to offer but, as he took in his surroundings, he was having difficulty aligning the old rumor to the reality. By their very definition, entrance ways were often tired and care worn but this place looked brand new with strips of embedded lighting gently leading them into the ship. It felt almost as if they were the first people to have come this way. The place was so spacious, it would put a lot of Confederation ships to shame.

  When they reached the top of the ramp Faulkner signalled for the others to stop. Up ahead, a comprehensive reception party had been laid out for them. He turned to the seven Marines who were bringing up the rear. “I think this is far enough.”

  Their CO, a bull necked young major started to protest but Faulkner quieted him.

  “We have an extremely sensitive situation here,” he said. “And I don’t want to risk jeopardising it.”

  Faulkner’s own release from Dhaza had been postponed countless times and each time it’d felt like a betrayal.

  “I understand that, sir,” the man’s ID tags identified him as Major Ellman. “But we have to consider everyone’s security and, with respect, if we’re not with you, we won’t be able to support you.”

  “I appreciate that, son,” Faulkner said. “But there are times when you have to be prepared to take a risk.” He looked up to the main concourse. “And I think that this is one of those times. But trust me, we won’t take any needless risks. If things look to be ‘Going South,’ I’ll give the signal and we’ll be out of there.”

  Elland looked from Faulkner to the group of Yakutian officials. He was still trying to come to terms with the realities of the situation but his regard for Faulkner over-rode all of that.

  “Very good, sir,” he said, coming to attention. “We’ll wait on your signal.”

  So, it was only the three of them who set off down the final stretch: Faulkner, McNeill and Smith the translator. Because of McNeill’s mobility issues, they had to slow the pace but that suited Faulkner.

  He couldn’t help feeling anxious about what they were doing and, from the look on McNeill’s face, he wasn’t the only one. The Yakutians had developed a reputation over the years for setting up these handovers only to renege on them at the very last minute. In fact, the only successful hand-over he could recall had been his own. And that had been down to the tireless appli
cation of one woman.

  Elsbeth Morton.

  He’d come prepared in his full-dress blues and was trying to exude a relaxed attitude. The last thing he wanted to do at this stage was to spook the Yakutians. Because he fully expected this to go off without a hitch and not simply because he believed in the generosity of Captain Sunderam.

  No. It was because Faulkner held the key to one of the most valuable assets the Yakutians could ever hope to possess – advanced alien technology. And he knew that they’d do almost anything to get their hands on it.

  Still, if he did manage to pull off the repatriation of so many of his former crew members it would be nothing short of a minor miracle. With Schwartz still in the infirmary, it had been left to him to try to put together a medical team equal to the task of receiving such a mixed bag of prisoners. It had meant pulling some of his crew members away from their regular posts but he’d had little alternative. It would have been impossible to throw together a last-minute triage centre without ruffling at least a few feathers. They’d set it up in the cargo bay so that the prisoners needs could be dealt with as soon as they came onboard.

  Everyone in the Yakutian delegation was looking in their direction and what struck him first was how young they all looked. Plus, their augmentations, though still visible, were much less noticeable than he’d been expecting. Clearly, there’d been a lot of changes in the Yakutian military in the last twenty years.

  And, at the centre of all this, was Captain Sunderam, looking as tough and capable as Faulkner remembered him. Faulkner had pondered the likelihood that, after the inexplicable disappearance of his predecessor, Sunderam might have struggled to ensure loyalty within the ranks – the Yakutian House system seemingly designed to inspire rivalry and dissent – but there seemed to be no sign of that here. If anything, they seemed to be treating him with the utmost respect and, for his part, Sunderam appeared to be completely at ease with the situation, as if handovers like this happened every day.

  The three Confederation officers lined up to salute their Yakutian counterparts who returned the courtesy with their customary stiffness. Then they were all served with a glass of sparkling wine before being encouraged to help themselves to the lavish buffet. Smith demurred while McNeill happily went around filling his plate.

  Then it was time for the two captains to make their introductions with Sunderam speaking throughout in his perfect English. It was only when the bureaucrats spoke that Smith had to translate. If Faulkner had been expecting any tension he was to be disappointed with the bureaucrats going out of their way not to contradict their commander.

  To one side of the main reception was a small area which had been set up for the formal signing over of the prisoners. This dragged on for far longer than was necessary with the bureaucrats insisting on reading out each document which then in turn had to be translated. And all for a series of documents which the two captains had drafted between them online. Still, what they were trying to achieve was quite monumental in one sense so, if all it took for things to run smoothly was for them to be a little overzealous with the paperwork, then so be it.

  In fact, the only moment of friction came as the last of the Yakutian officers finished signing off on their documents. Faulkner, having finished adding his signature, stood up and beckoned McNeill and Smith forward to sign as witnesses.

  As Smith came forward, one of the bureaucrats started snatching documents off the table while shouting at the others to do the same. Suddenly, the Yakutians turned on one another, each one attempting to drown out the other. It got to the point where even Sunderam didn’t seem to be able to placate them.

  With everyone talking at once, Faulkner’s basic grasp of Coptic failed him, and he had to turn to Smith for clarification.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I think it’s to do with me,” Ensign Smith said, her cheeks beginning to color. “They’re saying that if I sign, I’ll invalidate the documents.”

  “But they were the ones who insisted on two witnesses,” Faulkner said through gritted teeth.

  “That’s right, sir. Only they’re taking issue over my gender. The older gentlemen is insisting that, because I’m a woman, my signature won’t be legally binding under Yakutian law. It could be used as a pretense to render the whole process invalid.”

  Faulkner took Sunderam off to one side.

  “What do you want to do?” Faulkner said.

  Sunderam rubbed his jaw. “It’s not ideal but I think that she has to sign it. We have to have witnesses on both sides.”

  “But what if it comes back and bites us in the ass?”

  “Your people will be long gone by then, captain,” Sunderam said, drily.

  Faulkner considered the implications of this before leading Sunderam back to the table.

  “Okay, I think that’s sorted,” he said.

  Sunderam went over and took the papers from the bureaucrat who’d removed them. Then he laid them out, each in turn, for Smith to sign. She was so flustered that she rushed the first one but then, after looking to Faulkner for reassurance, seemed to calm down.

  Then it was McNeill’s turn. The trouble was that there was no step to help him up onto the chair. Faulkner wasn’t sure if he should intervene, but he needn’t have worried, McNeill grabbed the seat and levered himself up into it. He then had to stand on the chair in order to make his mark but other than that it all went smoothly.

  While the bureaucrats went over, checking that it was all in order, Faulkner became aware of a commotion behind him. When he finally turned around he saw that the main hanger door had been opened and that people were flooding through.

  It took him several seconds to process what he was witnessing.

  The remaining crew members of the Mantis had just been released.

  Faulkner just stood there while the Yakutians continued to argue over the documents, completely unaware of what was happening around them.

  The prisoners came forward in a rush only to pull up about ten metres short of Faulkner, seemingly confused as to what was expected of them. Most were dressed in threadbare versions of their old uniforms although a good many of them appeared to be wearing cast-off items of civilian clothing. Aside from looking under-nourished, they seemed overwhelmed by their new surroundings, suggesting that during their captivity they hadn’t seen much of the rest of the ship.

  He wanted to go over and speak to them, but McNeill’s expression warned him off. They’d all agreed to avoid any emotional reunions until all the prisoners were safely aboard the shuttles. They wanted to avoid doing anything which could be construed as being critical of their hosts.

  They had to maintain the impression that they were being as non-judgemental as possible. They were still some way off getting everyone out of there. They just had to keep it together.

  The Yakutians, though, for their part seemed to have little interest in what was going on. They ignored the prisoners in the same way a farmer might ignore the oxen they’d just sold. They’d done the deal so it was time to move on. This was no place for foolish emotions.

  Except Faulkner could feel his stony resolve beginning to crumble. These people had been through so much. They deserved some level of respect considering what they’d been through.

  In lieu of anyone on the Yakutian side taking charge, McNeill and Smith took it upon themselves to direct the prisoners down the main ramp towards where the Marines would be waiting for them.

  “What’s going on?” one of the women said, appearing confused. “Are we meant to be here?”

  “It’s alright,” Faulkner assured them. “You’re being released.”

  The woman looked bewildered but allowed herself to be directed down the ramp.

  Faulkner flinched as someone cried out and he turned to see a young woman still wearing her ensign’s jacket just standing there allowing the press of people to by-pass her. She straightened her shoulders and raised her hand in a salute.

  “Captain Faulkner?” the woman
was slightly built but her voice was loud and clear.

  Faulkner returned the salute.

  “Ensign Roberts. Very good to see you again.”

  “Good to see you too, sir.”

  She opened her mouth to say more but then the crowd surged forward and she was gone.

  “How many are we meant to have, sir?” Smith asked.

  “The paperwork says a hundred and forty-seven.”

  “But our last report said only eighty-four.”

  Faulkner narrowed his eyes. “You’re not disputing the accuracy of Yakutian paperwork are you, ensign?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” she said before going to the aid of a man who had started moving off in the wrong direction.

  McNeill came and stood next to Faulkner.

  “Everything alright, sir?”

  “Yes,” he said, somewhat distractedly. “Only, I thought she might be here by now.”

  “Doctor Morton?”

  “That’s right. Or, rather, Surgeon Captain Morton. I was led to believe that she was the officer in charge.”

  Sunderam turned at that. “Something I can help you with, captain?”

  Faulkner repeated Morton’s name and rank first to Sunderam and then to one of the officials who checked through the manifest. The man checked it twice before turning back to Sunderam and shaking his head.

  “I’m afraid not, captain,” Sunderam said. “Have you got anything else for us to go on. A Christian name, perhaps.”

  Was this some sort of game?

  She had to be here. He’d spoken to her.

  Faulkner looked about him as the sea of bodies surged past. One or two of them raised a hand in acknowledgment but he hardly noticed.

  He turned his attention to the official.

  “Elsbeth. Elsbeth Morton,” he even spelled it out for him.

  The man made a few adjustments to his data pad before handing it to Sunderam.

  “We have an Elsbeth Bayas,” he said. “But, according to this, she isn’t a ranking officer.”

  “No, I had to give that up.”

  They all turned in the direction of the woman’s voice.