Harry Heron Savage Fugitive

by Patrick G Cox

  Danny gritted his teeth, the pain intense as he replied in a strangled voice, “Thanks. I think I can manage. Just give me a minute to get my breath back,” but as soon as he said that, he fainted.

  The small troop of Consortium soldiers reached the building Harry and his crew had occupied barely an hour ago. Acutely aware of their danger and knowing the Fleet fugitives were armed, the searchers followed combat procedures rigorously. Searching room by room, floor by floor, they worked their way in following a much-practiced routine, bursting into the chamber, weapons hot and ready. They relaxed when it proved as empty as all the other rooms they’d searched in this building. If the Fleet survivors had been here, they were gone now, but they couldn’t have been gone long. The smell of cooking and unwashed humanity was pungent through their breathing filters.

  Lifting his visor, the sergeant sniffed. “This place stinks — smells worse than a backed-up latrine.”

  “Someone’s been here, Sarge. Look at this bit of rubbish, and food scraps from a fish.”

  The squad leader approached the Lieutenant. “Sir, something or someone’s been using this building. We found these.” He held up a pair of very worn boots and a small toolkit. “Looks like some of our kit, but none of our people have been in this area.”

  “You’re right.” The Lieutenant took the toolkit from the sergeant. “This is one of ours. It has the unit ID on the case.” He handed it back and glanced around him. “Okay, there’s someone here then. I want this area searched. Take the damned buildings apart if you have to, but find them.” He activated his comlink. “Captain, we may have a contact with the runaways from the Daring. I’ll need more men to search this area properly.”

  “Stay where you are. I’m on my way over with the troop. Secure the area and make sure all your equipment is secure — especially the coms and the vehicle’s AI.”

  Harry gazed about the large round chamber with its high domed ceiling and passages leading out in several directions. Galleried walkways circled the perimeter. The ground floor had the appearance of a park with a fountain, ponds and flowering plants.

  The tunnels were lit, and it was obvious that many of the chambers opening off the galleries and tunnels were dwellings. A large number of Canids were present, most of them staring with fierce intent at Harry and his men.

  The Coxswain grimaced. “Hope we’re not on the menu.”

  “No cauldron or roasting spit in sight,” Harry bantered, his mind taking in all the details as he followed the guide. The translation device growled and chirped in his hand while in his ears, the voice of what he assumed was an AI explained that they would be given their own living area. It occurred to him that he needed to share this information with the others.

  “According to the AI that runs this place, we are to be given our own space. They will assist us and provide everything we need.”

  “It would be helpful if they could provide us with some coarse sulphur and potassium nitrate—” quipped Rasmus “—assuming you still want me to create some black powder. The replicator can’t produce enough pure sulphur, and I can’t make a good explosive without it.”

  “Some decent clothes would be useful, sir,” said one of the men.

  Harry had thought of that, but was spared the need to answer when their guide stopped and gestured, then growled something that the device translated as, “Here is your place. There are spaces for all to sleep — you may tell me your wishes and your needs.”

  Harry bowed his acknowledgement, an unconscious gesture from his eighteenth century upbringing. “My thanks for your assistance to us. Allow us to settle ourselves and we will certainly inform you of our needs once we know what we may require.”

  Alone with his party, Harry told them, “The Canids and their Provider are offering us protection. The Provider is, I think, some kind of AI system. Like our ships, it is capable of logical intelligent thought.”

  “An AI, sir?” said the Coxswain in an uncharacteristic interruption.

  “So it appears, though it may be something else. It tells me it is the servant of the Siddhiche, and that we are to assist in protecting it. I assume it means protection from the Consortium, our mutual enemy. In return, we will be provided everything we need.”

  “Some new clothes an’ boots will be great,” remarked one of the men.

  “That will certainly be useful,” said Harry. He noted the expressions of their Canid watchers, which ranged from skeptical to hostile. “I think not all of them welcome us. I’ve been told by the AI that until they were attacked and driven out of their cities, they had no need for the sort of weapons we and our enemies employ, which means they have nothing with which to fight back. We will help them to create some and acquire others, I hope.”

  Rasmus nodded. “It will serve them well to be able to defend themselves properly. I will need some specialised equipment. Do you think they can provide it?”

  Harry nodded. “I’m certain the leader trusts me now, and he knows that I mean him and his people no harm, but we must be careful of everything we do in the presence of these Canids. Do nothing that might provoke them or be misinterpreted as a slight upon them or theirs. Those wretched Consortium troops, never satisfied with enough, have killed and injured many of them in attempts to seize their structures. We must show the Canids that even though we are human, we have no such intention.”

  In his cell, Ferghal explored what was left of the lab’s AI network. He was bored, primarily because the materials and tools he had been promised by the guard had not been provided. The network seemed to be as mindless as it was when he had finished his angry assault on it. It was practically useless now, but that didn’t worry Ferghal.

  He had discovered that whenever anyone brought a portable interface near the facility, he could use it to enter a larger network that, he assumed, must be in a separate building nearby. Someone had one today, and he used it to enter the larger mind, which accepted him as a mobile node. He explored the data for anything that might confirm his belief that Harry was alive and free.

  Chapter 17 — Tipping the Scales

  “Someone was here recently.” The Consortium Major frowned as he studied the rooms Harry and his men had occupied. “These places give me the creeps. You always feel as if you’re being watched.” He glanced at the troopers, all in combat ready postures, all with their backs to blank walls as they guarded their officers.

  “Glad I’m not the only one that feels it.” The Patrol Commander looked around. “The men have been through every building now, sir. No other signs of habitation, and no sign of the Fleet personnel we’re looking for.”

  “Well, if they left before this storm started, they’re likely dead, unless they found shelter. It’s bloody awful out there.”

  The Lieutenant hesitated. “If they’re dead, then problem solved, but my people were certain they hadn’t been gone long when we found the stuff they left behind. You can still smell the food they cooked — some sort of fish, I think. Smells like it anyway.”

  “They can’t have gone far then. But where the hell are they? Tell the Sergeant to search again. I want a floor by floor search, and I want them to look for anything out of the ordinary.” He stared at the large panel embedded in the wall. It was difficult to tell, but he was sure it was less prominent now than it had been when they’d entered. “Put sentries at the access to all the surrounding buildings, and double guard on this one.”

  Harry’s desire to take the fight to the Consortium came down to mobility and weapons. He and his men lacked transport, but Rasmus, aided by Coxswain Winstanley and TechRate Hill, worked tirelessly to manufacture some crude but effective grenades.

  “We’re working on a sort of landmine and a smaller version you wanted — a torpedo, I think you called it.”

  “Yes, a Bangalore torpedo, one that can be pushed beneath a barrier and detonated remotely. That will be most useful.”

  “We have plenty of them grenade things now, sir,�
�� said the Coxswain. “And these little buggers.” He grinned and held up a tube, gazing at it almost lovingly. “This little rocket may be small, but it’s a mean little bugger when it hits something, and with Mr. Rasmus’s special mix as propellant and the charge when it hits — boom!” He grinned, and the others laughed when he added the sound of an explosion to make his point.

  “Trouble is the rocket is unreliable,” said Rasmus. “The nozzle needs work. It doesn’t develop the thrust it should, and the directional stability is erratic, to say the least.”

  “If nothing else, the grenades will be useful for our own defence,” mused Harry.

  Rasmus nodded with infectious enthusiasm. “Then we shall keep at it and develop them. I will persuade our hosts to provide the materials we need for a more sophisticated explosive. It will increase our effectiveness.” He was practically bursting with energy to get back into the makeshift lab he’d set up in his quarters.

  “Then I will ask the Provider. I would be happier, I confess, if the explosives were in a secure store.”

  TechRate Skoronski stood to attention just inside the door. “Sir, we have visitors.”

  “Visitors? Oh.” Harry stood and bowed to acknowledge the large Canid at his doorway then grabbed the translator. “Welcome. To what do we owe this pleasure?”

  A translated response issued from the device. “Greeting. We have clothes for you and your pack — replacements for the rags you wear.”

  Puzzled, Harry said, “Thank you, that is generous. Where should we collect these?”

  “Yours are here. Your pack will receive theirs in the outer chamber.” The Canid stood aside and two smaller ones entered, who had the distinct look of adolescents, to Harry’s mind, their arms filled with bulky bundles, which they presented to Harry and Rasmus. “We will wait to ensure they fit correctly,” said the elder one.

  The outfits were remarkable, the external finish similar to leather in appearance, close fitting yet comfortable, tailored to the wearer’s shape. Reinforced at the knee and lower leg, it had some form of armour over the shoulders and around the chest and stomach, both very light and flexible. Dark blue-black in colour, the foundation material was thick and synthetic, and somehow regulated body temperature. A helmet that incorporated a device to enhance their hearing was also provided. Even outdoors in the freezing temperatures, they didn’t feel the cold except on the parts of their faces not covered.

  “Everybody comfortable in these outfits?” Harry asked.

  “They’re great, sir, but a bit warm.” Errol Hill grinned at Maddie. “I’m almost too warm.”

  “A bit tight on the chest, sir,” Maddie commented. “And no support, if you get my meaning!” She chuckled along with the guys because she’d made the cheeky comment to get a laugh out of them.

  Torn between stifled laughter and embarrassment, Harry struggled to collect his composure. “Er, right. Here, Hodges, use this translator to explain the problem to them . . . to the Canid there . . . the elder one.” He ran out of words and just handed it to her.

  Amid a storm of banter, Maddie grinned. “Thanks, sir.” Turning to the guys, she retorted, “Alright, you lot! So they don’t know the difference between human men and women. Oh!” she exclaimed as the device yipped and growled.

  “Just talk to it, Miss, um, ComOp Hodges. It’ll translate to the Canids whatever you say.” To the others, Harry ordered, “If you’re all fitted and comfortable, we’ll leave ComOp Hodges while she explains her needs.”

  Still laughing and joking, and Maddie enjoying the attention with her typical good humour, the men filed past him, the last, the Coxswain, confiding, “You’ll have to persuade this Provider chappie to make a change to these outfits, sir. The shirt for one — it traps the sweat.”

  Harry had noticed this himself. “Good point, Swain. I’ll do it as soon as Ms. Hodges is finished.”

  It took several attempts to explain the need of a permeable material for shirts and underwear.

  “They don’t understand the whole perspiration thing,” Harry explained to Rasmus. “I think their physiology must be very different to ours.”

  “Or perhaps they don’t have pores and don’t perspire as we do.” Rasmus paused. “Perhaps I should explain this.”

  The Provider finally understood the need for human skin to ‘breathe’ and perspire. The shirt and underclothes were changed to a lightweight material that wicked away moisture while keeping the body a comfortable temperature. The jackets, which varied in colour from olive green to brown, gave the wearer a slightly bulky appearance due to it being heavily built up to protect and insulate. The collar encased the neck and supported the back of the head, which emerged through a close fitting opening. The collar was, in fact, a sort of hood that could be pulled up to cover the head and protect it in extreme weather. Stout and surprisingly comfortable boots encased their feet and lower legs, and provided incredible grip and support for their ankles.

  “It’s confirmed,” said Consortium Brigadier Newton. “The Chairman and some very important board members will arrive in twelve days. We need double security and a five-mile total exclusion zone around the Base perimeter. Aerial surveillance, and shoot on sight anything that looks like a threat.”

  “What about the natives?” asked Colonel Rees.

  “Divert them. I want no threat to the Board while they’re here.” Brigadier Newton turned to another Colonel. “Your patrol found evidence of human use in a building. Have they found any trace of who, and when they were there?”

  “Not yet, ma’am.” The Colonel looked uncomfortable. “As soon as our troops tried to force their way through some of the barriers, the natives attacked us. In close confines like that, they have a big advantage.”

  “So? A few of them against armed and armoured troopers?”

  “There were too many of them, and in a confined area, discharging our plasma weapons is very risky. Our people had no option but to withdraw and wait for additional forces. By the time the reinforcements arrived, there were more of them, and it got messy. We took casualties, and so did they. They take violent exception to us doing anything at all to their precious structures . . . whatever those things are.”

  The Brigadier nodded. The fight had escalated very fast, and the Colonel was wise to withdraw. “Then we’ll keep a lid on them there. They’re five hundred miles from here. We’ll deal with them once the Board has left.” She turned back to her Chief of Staff. “Assign additional surveillance. Order our forces to shoot on sight if they spot anyone or anything trying to leave that area.”

  “What about the Johnstone situation? Lieutenant O’Connor will have a legitimate complaint about his treatment. With Dr. Johnstone arriving with the Board, we’ll have a problem on our hands if they try to do any further experiments on him. The damage to the AI nodes is so bad there is only one way to fix it — a total replacement.”

  “I have the Chairman’s word no one will attempt anything on him.” She paused to glance around the table. “Has he been given the recreational tools he wanted? We have a duty to ensure his welfare. Since we can’t put him to work with his companions, we’ll have to find some other way to make him useful.”

  The Colonel nodded. “I’ll see to it. The researchers have blocked his request so far — they say they need him to get frustrated and bored. I think they’re hoping he’ll try something they can track.”

  Lieutenant Aral Clark stared at the ceiling above his bed. With his fellow prisoners restricting their interactions with him to business only, he felt isolated. Not that this was a new feeling. It had been a hallmark of his childhood, with his father always away on a ship to some remote outpost, and his mother busy with her own life. An exclusive boarding school had seemed a good option, but unfortunately, it had turned into a nightmare due to his desire to be popular with his classmates. That had backfired, as everything always did, and he’d become the butt of some rather cruel jokes.

  He knew his intellectua
l limitations, but tended to overcompensate by being very rigid in his methods of work. Why won’t they admit I was right to insist we surrender? They know we were outnumbered and couldn’t fight off a bunch of ground troops! Even as he thought it, he knew the other officers would’ve countered by saying they should’ve at least put up a fight and forced the Consortium’s people to work for it.

  His mind wandered to his wife. Delle was the love of his life, but she never seemed satisfied, always pressing him to do better, to push for accelerated promotion, ask for a better posting. Nothing seemed good enough for her, even when he’d briefly held a post as Flag Lieutenant. Then she carped because he wasn’t mixing with the ‘right’ people, the ones who could make his career or break it, as the case may be.

  Well, he’d taken this post as Navigating Officer on the Daring because it would be, as his uncle said, a steppingstone to a planet-side post and a promotion — except he could barely handle the mathematics. And then along came Harry bloody Heron, that annoyingly perfect Irishman who had somehow landed in Clark’s world all the way from the nineteenth century, and if that weren’t bad enough, he just happened to be related to Admiral Heron of the mighty Fleet, to add insult to injury.

  “I hate him,” he said aloud, and startled himself. He hadn’t meant that to come out. He looked round guiltily in case he’d been overheard, but no one seemed to notice.

  His thoughts continued to plague him as he lay in the darkness. How the devil had Heron survived? Where was he? And how would Delle react to the news that her husband was a prisoner of war? Maybe she thought he was dead already. Maybe she had already contacted the life insurance company and demanded they pay up on his deceased ass. He wouldn’t put it past her. He’d have to try to talk to one of the Consortium officers, see if he could get a message out to her.

  When he was too exhausted to think, sleep finally claimed him.