Darkspace Renegade Volume 1: Books 1 & 2: (A Military Sci-Fi Series)

by G J Ogden

  Fletcher’s mention of inquiring where Hallam had been already had him panicking. Do they know I was on a renegade hideout? Do they know I met with Shelby Rand? Do they think I’m a Darkspace Renegade? He tried to push these dark thoughts to the back of his mind to make space for more reasoned assessments. They couldn’t possibly have known where he had been, Hallam asserted. It was just part of their interrogation technique – all he had to do was stay calm and answer their questions, and everything would be okay. It didn’t help that the sudden memory of Dakota was now clouding his thoughts; he still hadn’t been able to find out if she was alive or dead. At least the debrief would give him an opportunity to push the investigators for some new information, he told himself, looking for any sort of silver lining.

  “Take a seat, Mr. Knight,” said Fletcher as the two investigators moved to the opposite side of a small, metal table placed in the center of the room. On it was a single glass of water, but besides that and three chairs, the room was an empty and starkly inhospitable space. “We are simply here to ascertain the circumstances surrounding the loss of Tanker One Three. We are not accusing you of any wrongdoing.”

  Hallam nodded. “Good to know,” he said, suddenly feeling slightly more at ease.

  “At least, not yet,” Fletcher added, and Hallam felt his mouth go dry. He considered reaching for the glass of water, but worried that it might signal to the investigators that he was anxious, and so resisted the urge.

  “Before we get started, can you tell me if my partner was also rescued?” Hallam added, keen to learn of Dakota’s fate, and also move the topic away from his potential culpability. “She was the tanker’s pilot; her name is Dakota Wulfrun.”

  “We will come on to your partner later,” said Fletcher. Her level tone and expression gave absolutely nothing away. Hallam was about to press her, when the investigator launched directly into her question with barely a pause for breath. “Please explain in your own words the circumstances leading up to the accident,” Fletcher said while activating a small palm computer and staring down at the screen.

  Hallam’s pulse suddenly started to race, and he could feel the sweat beading on his brow again. Right up until this point, he hadn’t thought about what he would say to the investigators; he’d been too caught up with what Dr. Rand had told him. However, right now, he realized he had to make a choice – to lie or tell them the truth. He had only a split second to decide; any hesitation would have made him look suspicious.

  “There’s not really much to say,” said Hallam, starting with the parts of the story that were true and also not self-incriminating. “We were a couple of hours out from the Centrum, heading to Minerva, when there was a malfunction in the fuel system.”

  Fletcher’s eyes remained fixed on her palm computer, but her companion – the one she’d called “Chan” – had kept his eyes locked on to Hallam the whole time they’d been in the room. His unwavering blank stare was deeply unsettling in a passive-aggressive way.

  “We didn’t manage to stabilize it in time before the drive system malfunctioned,” Hallam went on. “The next thing I knew, we’d crashed off the bridge and into the Darkspace. We were both forced to jettison before the drive’s core ruptured and the ship blew up.”

  And just like that, Hallam had made his choice; he’d committed to the lie. More than that, he’d done it without even a second thought. Lying was not something Hallam was accustomed to, but this one had come freely and easily to him. Even more surprisingly, it hadn’t felt wrong.

  “I see,” replied Fletcher, still staring at her palm computer while Chan continued to drill his eyes into Hallam’s skull. “Your pod’s disaster beacon was not detected for almost seventy-two hours. You were fortunate to be found at all.”

  “The pod was damaged as I jettisoned,” said Hallam, again improvising his story as the interview progressed. “I managed to get the beacon up and running again. I’m just grateful the SAR team stuck around for so long.”

  “Fortunate indeed,” said Fletcher, still without looking up from the pad.

  The truth was that Dr. Rand had recovered one of the stricken tanker’s remaining disaster pods before pushing the tanker out of the planet’s orbit and into an endless descent into nothingness. The masked crew of the Darkspace Renegade hideout had then sealed Hallam up inside and shot him back out into the Darkspace.

  Being packaged up like a sardine in the disaster pod and jettisoned into the void was not Hallam’s preferred choice. For starters, he wasn’t convinced there would still be anyone out looking for him at the site of their accident. Even if there was, there was no guarantee they’d be looking in the right place. Space was big and empty, and the disaster pod was barely larger than a nineteen fifties “bubble car.” However, Dr. Rand’s assertions that they’d be able to set Hallam’s pod on a course toward the SAR beacon, and that they still had twelve hours before the search was abandoned, had proved correct, much to his relief.

  Fletcher remained silent, quietly studying the contents of her palm computer’s screen, while Chan maintained his laser-like stare. The pause lasted for around ten agonizingly slow seconds before the chief interrogator spoke again. “And when did you have time to change out of your Consortium-issue uniform?”

  Hallam glanced down at the military-style jacket and pants that Dr. Rand had given him and felt sick. He again tried to think quickly, but this time, he couldn’t avoid stumbling through his words. “Well, I was already wearing this,” Hallam said, trying to sound nonplussed, but even he could hear the new stresses in his voice.

  “You were wearing these clothes when you boarded Tanker One Three on the Centrum?” asked Fletcher.

  “Yeah… well… I think so,” Hallam answered, still stumbling over his words and trying not to commit to an answer. Fletcher was attempting to catch him out, and he was dangerously close to falling into her trap.

  Fletcher then turned the palm computer to face Hallam, and as he looked at the screen, his stomach sank again. The display showed a security camera image of Hallam and Dakota boarding their transport. It clearly showed that Hallam was wearing his normal Consortium uniform.

  “Perhaps you can explain this image?” Fletcher continued, maintaining her coldly indifferent tone of voice. Chan had barely moved, and Hallam wasn’t even sure the man had blinked.

  “Oh, I remember now,” said Hallam, clicking his fingers, desperately trying to invent a reason for the discrepancy. “I spilled coffee all over myself and had to change. My other uniform was still in the wash, so I just slung on what I had clean.”

  “I see,” said Fletcher, turning the palm computer screen away from Hallam. “It says on your file that you dislike coffee,” she went on, and again Hallam felt like he was going to throw up. “In fact, for the last one hundred food and beverage orders you placed at Consortium depots, you have not selected coffee once.”

  Hallam smiled and tapped his head, then rolled his eyes. “It was Dak’s coffee that got spilled on me,” he said, eighty percent sure that Dak had been carrying a take-away cup when they boarded the tanker, same as she always did. “Sorry, just a mix-up on my part. It’s been a long few days, you know?”

  “Indeed,” said Fletcher, again giving nothing away. Hallam almost wished the duo would launch into a classic good-cop, bad-cop routine, or at least show some emotion; their deathly personalities were starting to creep him out.

  “Look, are we nearly done here?” asked Hallam, hoping to cut short the interview before he tripped over his own spontaneous web of lies. “I’d like to check in to my room, then see if I can find out what happened to my partner Dak.”

  Fletcher tapped away at the palm computer for several more, painfully slow seconds, before pausing and meeting Hallam’s eyes. “We are done, Mr. Knight. You may leave.”

  Hallam felt a rush of relief flood over him, and he stood up, smiling broadly. “Great, well, if I can be of any more assistance, then just let me know,” Hallam said, turning to the door.

 
; “Dakota Wulfrun’s disaster pod was never recovered.”

  Hallam froze, then jolted around to face the two investigators. “What? What are you saying?” said Hallam, feeling the gut-punch of fear. “Are you telling me she’s dead?”

  “Her beacon was active, and the escort fighter reported that he was closing in on its position,” Fletcher added. “But then it disappeared. I don’t suppose you have any idea where she might have gone?”

  Hallam scowled at the investigator. “No, why the hell would I know that?” he said, then kicked himself for losing his cool.

  “No reason,” said Fletcher, still displaying no emotion. “Have a good day, Mr. Knight.”

  Hallam turned again and grabbed hold of the handle, but he’d barely pulled the door ajar before Fletcher interrupted him again.

  “One last thing, Mr. Knight,” Fletcher said.

  Hallam sighed and turned his head to look at her, keeping his body facing the door. “Go ahead,” he said, wishing that a sinkhole would open up and suddenly swallow the two investigators.

  “How long have you known that Dakota Wulfrun was a Darkspace Renegade?”

  This time, Hallam felt his knees almost buckle. He’d never wanted to get away from somewhere more in his life, and that included when he’d woken up in the eerie hospital ward on the renegade hideout. However, the investigator had asked about Dakota, not himself, and this gave him an out.

  “What are you talking about? She’s no renegade!” Hallam hit back, genuinely angry at the accusation. “Why the hell would she sabotage her own ship, with her still on it? For all I know, she’s dead or dying out in the Darkspace. You people have a nerve accusing her like that!” Hallam took a breath and bit down hard. He’d lost it, and he needed to regain his composure.

  “Sabotage, you say?” said Fletcher, and Hallam could have punched himself in the eye. “An interesting suggestion.” Then Fletcher showed the faintest flicker of a smile and placed her palm computer flat on the table. “That is all, Mr. Knight. Thank you for your assistance.”

  Hallam moved swiftly through the door and practically ran out along the corridor, letting the door swing shut behind him.

  If Hallam had paused even for a moment and turned to pull the door shut behind him, he might have seen Fletcher tapping a message on her palm computer. And if his eyes were keen enough, he might have also seen who the intended recipient of the message was – the mercenary, Cad Rikkard.

  However, Hallam saw none of these things; all he saw was an image of Dakota Wulfrun, banging on the porthole window of a thick metal door. Except this time, she wasn’t hammering on the door to the tanker’s engineering section. She was thumping on the hatch door to her disaster pod as it slipped deeper and deeper into the Darkspace, with Dakota forever trapped inside.

  15

  Hallam grabbed another can of beer from the six-pack he’d set down on the rock beside him and pressed the self-chill button on the base. While he waited for the can to cool to his selected temperature of forty-seven degrees Fahrenheit, he looked out across the coastline of the campus’ private beach. It was early evening and the sky was already starting to turn a honey-yellow color. The can chirruped softly, informing him that the set temperature had been reached, and Hallam tugged the ring pull, hearing the satisfying hiss of gas escape. He brought the container to his lips and took a healthy swig of the contents before holding up the can to the setting sun.

  “Here’s to you, Dak,” he said as the bubbles fizzed on his tongue. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have done better for you.”

  Hallam had heard nothing more from the furtive Consortium Investigation Branch since his grilling by “Fletcher,” and he was glad of it. The only other uncomfortable meeting he’d been subjected to was a regular debriefing from his supervisor. It had been uncomfortable because it had begun with the supervisor informing Hallam that Dakota Wulfrun had been officially declared “dead in absentia.” To his surprise, and the chair-shifting discomfort of the review panel, he’d actually cried. For some reason, he’d believed that Dakota had somehow made it back, despite there being no logical explanation for how she could have. She was the closest and best friend Hallam had ever had – she was his only friend, if he was honest. Dakota’s death had hit him way harder than Hallam expected, leaving him totally unprepared for the sudden swell of grief that clouted him like a hard left-right combo.

  After that bombshell, the embarrassed supervisor and his colleagues on the panel had wasted no time in ushering Hallam into a psych evaluation. Given his fragile mental state, Hallam was convinced that he’d catastrophically failed the test, but the doctors cleared him anyway. Hallam guessed this was because they were still desperate for tanker crew, especially after losing Tanker One Three and its pilot. This was, no doubt, also the reason he’d been cleared for duty after only two days back at the base. He was due to ship out again in the morning, as Tanker Two Nine’s new gunner. His destination and route hadn’t been revealed to him yet; this was standard practice to minimize the chance of such sensitive information getting into the hands of Darkspace Renegades. However, in reality, there was never much variation in their tanker routes. Extended detours just wasted Randenite, and the fuel was too valuable to burn on elongated joyrides around the galaxy. Most likely, he would be heading to the Centrum via Orcus, then to Fortuna or even, heaven forbid, Earth. Hallam almost preferred the prospect of a trip to Feronia and its endless expanse of casinos and brothels, or the treacherous mining communities of Pomona, to the desperate, crowded, and polluted metropolises of humanity’s home planet.

  Hallam belched, letting out some of the gas he’d just gulped down with the last swig of beer, and sat back against the rock. He intended to enjoy his last night in paradise before being cooped up again in an armored tin can that essentially had a giant bullseye painted on its hull.

  A few peaceful minutes slipped by, then Hallam felt a curious buzzing sensation in his pants. He shot up off the rock, fearing an imminent nibble from one of Vesta’s many tremorcrabs. These palm-sized crustaceans always vibrated before they attacked to warn off threats, and though they weren’t especially dangerous, Hallam had no desire to be pincered on the ass by one. However, as he inspected the nooks and crannies of the rock cluster, there were no tremorcrabs to be seen. Then his pants vibrated again, and he patted himself down until he located the source. Reaching inside his pocket, Hallam’s fingers touched on the communication disc Dr. Rand had given him. It was gently pulsating. He pulled it out and sat down again, gawping at the device.

  Hallam felt a sudden rush of nervous energy, realizing who was on the other end of the high-tech call. He checked around his location, despite knowing there wasn’t anyone around for a mile or more, then pressed the disc to his temple, where it latched on to his skin like a magnet. Sucking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly, he tapped the disc and waited.

  “Is it safe for you to talk?” came the voice of Dr. Shelby Rand.

  “You could say that; I’m sitting on a rock on a beach with no one around for miles,” replied Hallam, feeling his heart race at the sound of the famous scientist’s voice.

  “Have you already been debriefed by the zealots from the investigation branch?” asked Dr. Rand, wasting no time in getting down to business.

  “Yeah, they jumped me the moment I landed,” replied Hallam. “I didn’t tell them anything about you or the hideout, in case that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I was more interested, rather than worried,” Dr. Rand replied, a little too indifferently for Hallam’s liking. “But if you had been honest, you would most likely be in a cell now as a suspected renegade, so you made the right choice.”

  “I didn’t lie to save my own ass,” said Hallam huffily. “Or yours, for that matter.”

  “Then why?”

  Hallam nervously twanged the ring-pull on the top of his beer can while he tried to figure out the reason. Why did I lie? he asked himself. It had been an easy lie; the easiest one he’d ever told,
despite the fact that lying to a CIB investigator was a serious breach of his contract, and one that could have gotten him banged up for years.

  “Hell, I don’t know, Doc,” Hallam eventually replied, again honestly. “Maybe I’m just not a snitch.”

  “Or maybe you’re coming around to my proposal?” said Dr. Rand hopefully.

  Hallam continued to twang the ring-pull before shrugging for the benefit of no one other than himself. “Maybe, who knows.”

  “Well, it’s crunch time, Mr. Knight,” said Dr. Rand, her tone stepping up a gear in urgency. “I need your help, and since my readings put you at the Consortium HQ on Vespa, you’re in the perfect place to get what I need.”

  “And what’s that?” asked Hallam, feeling like his privacy had just been invaded. Dr. Rand had clearly also been using the disc to track his movements. He felt like a criminal out on parole with a radio tag around his ankle.

  “I need you to get the tanker route plans for this week,” said Dr. Rand, suddenly switching from her professional academic tenor to the more hardened intonations of a renegade leader.

  Hallam snorted a laugh. “No way, Doc. I’m not feeding you those routes just so your band of cutthroats can go shoot down and kill more of my friends,” Hallam hit back. Then, with unfiltered bitterness, he added, “My partner is dead, by the way, thanks to you.”

  Dr. Rand was silent for a few seconds before her softer voice again resonated through the bones in Hallam’s skull. “I’m truly very sorry about Dakota Wulfrun,” she said, and to Hallam’s surprise, the sentiment sounded heartfelt and sincere. “It was never my intention that innocent people are harmed or killed, Hallam,” she continued, and Hallam noticed the unexpected shift to his given name. “If I could stop the Randenite shipments another way, believe me, I would.”