The silver fleet the com.., p.77
The Silver Fleet: The Complete Series, page 77
Tigris was there!
So big and bright and alluring that the idea that they wouldn’t be able to land on it somehow was impossible to fathom.
Barnes, laughing at their predicament, seemed to be skirting the very edges of mania. LaCruz realised that if she didn’t manage to calm him down things were likely to go south very quickly indeed.
“Walker, you carry out an MVWR on these suits ‘fore we left?”
“Er, yes,” Walker agreed, the specificity of the question taking him by surprise.
It was the first thing he’d said since leaving the ship.
Military Vacuum Worthiness Review was a standard check for any and all equipment used in space.
“Everything good?” she prompted.
“Er, yes. Far as I could tell.”
“But you did the full review, though. Seals, skin, hazards and cautions.”
“Yeah. All four checked out.”
“One hundred percent?”
“That’s right. But you’d expect that. These things are all brand new. Never been used.”
“Did you hear that, Barnes? Just like your brain: never been used.”
“Yeah, screw you, LaCruz.”
“I imagine we already are: screwed, that is. On account of you supposedly being in charge of all our ground checks.”
“What that supposed to mean? I did my job. Better than you. Everything checked out fine.”
“So why can’t we contact the shuttle?”
Barnes was struggling to orient himself so that he could look at her directly. She certainly had his attention now.
“Don’t ask me. When I checked them everything was working. Something’s happened since then.”
“Really? Are you saying someone’s interfered with our comms – on purpose?”
“I don’t know about that,” he said defensively. “All I know is I did my job.”
“Okay,” LaCruz’ tone was more mellow now. “According to Walker here, everything about these suits is perfect, right? And you’ve tested all the other equipment and, apart from the radios, everything else is working.”
“That’s what I just said.”
“So, really, there’s nothing stopping us from making planetfall ourselves.”
Walker snorted at the rich absurdity of that.
“Say what?” Barnes said. “We were lucky to make it out of that cargo bay in one piece - as well you know.”
“Well, that’s something we can agree on, at least. Would you also agree that these here suits cost a lot of money?”
“Shitload of money,” Walker affirmed.
“And we all know that the navy doesn’t like wasting money. So I’m willing to bet that the Five Mikes on these things are second to none. Would you agree?”
“What are you talking about?” Barnes said.
Five Mike was one of the Flight Test Schedules. It was an in-built training system which covered all aspects of the suits’ capabilities, from how to switch on the suits’ lights to how to initiate a safe landing. It covered everything.
The logic was that if you followed the procedures exactly as listed then the suit’s software would handle the rest. But the world doesn’t run on logic.
“I’m just saying that these things wouldn’t have left the factory if the landing procedures weren’t completely safe. If they hadn’t been fully tested.”
“Idiot proof,” Walker added.
But Barnes wasn’t convinced.
“Are you suggesting we try and land these things ourselves? Did you hit your head on the way out, LaCruz, cos that’s a sure-fire way of getting us killed.”
“Oh I’m sorry, Barnes. You got a better idea? You want us to hang around here and wait for a pick-up, is that it? Maybe stop off for a few beers on the way?”
“We haven’t been trained for any of this. EVA. Entry. Descent. Landing. None of it.”
“No, but the suits have and I’m willing to bet that if we stick together and just follow the Five Mike procedures, we’ve got a decent chance of walking away from this. Walker, what do you think?”
What followed was - what seemed like - the longest pause of LaCruz’ life thus far.
“Well, as my daddy used to say: it can only go one of two ways.”
“A wise man, your daddy,” LaCruz said. “So that’s two to one, then?”
“No, that’s three to none,” Barnes said warily. “I’m not staying out here on my own.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The desk which dominated the meeting room was coffee coloured and as close an approximation to teak as she’d ever seen but the overall effect was ruined by the chairs. The Yakutian idea of what a chair should look like was more like a squat stool, complete with a rail for you to rest your feet on. There was no back support as such, making it impossible to slouch. Comfort was not a concept Yakutian designers wasted much time on.
And Morton really needed to sit down. She’d been on her feet since early morning and was confident that if she pitched down over in the corner somewhere, she’d be asleep in seconds.
But she still had some unfinished business to attend to and knew that she wouldn’t be able to properly relax until it had been completed.
Things had not gone well with Faulkner. He wasn’t dead, but that was the only positive. The surgeons had successfully re-started his heart. At the low body temperatures that they were operating at his pulse had been glacially slow at first but, when no irregularities had presented themselves, after a couple of hours they had started to see an upsurge in brain activity.
Inwardly, Morton had been ecstatic but hadn’t been able to share her elation with the rest of the team. They took a very detached view regarding the patient’s welfare which, considering their background, was to be expected. They were there to do a job which they did to the best of their ability but there was no changing the fact that Faulkner – the so-called Butcher of Tsvengir – represented everything they had come to resent about the Confederation.
As the day wore on, Morton’s initial enthusiasm became tempered by the realisation that Yamada’s brain activity had peaked at about twelve percent, which was a lot less than she’d been hoping for. The Yakutian way would have been to install a cybernetic capacitator into his brain at this point as a way of stabilising his brainwaves. The Yakutians used the process regularly on brain injured patients as it boosted the brain’s capacity, giving the owner a certain autonomy by guaranteeing that they maintained basic neuro functioning. The price for that though would be to put a limit on Faulkner’s brain capacity while leaving him with the stigma of being augmented, something which Faulkner himself would never condone.
The Yakutian surgeons had become increasingly annoyed by her unwillingness to compromise over this issue as they felt that they had gone as far as they could with this particular patient. If it had been anyone else Morton might have agreed with them but, in the short term, she had insisted that they anaesthetise him, hoping that, by the time they returned the next morning, things might have improved.
When the door behind her opened she didn’t turn immediately. Instead, she took the opportunity to compose herself.
When she did eventually turn she was both relieved and annoyed to see Bunayega standing there.
“You said that you wanted to see me,” he said, his eyes darkly defiant.
“That’s right,” she flattened her hands on the desk. “Would you like to sit down?”
Bunayega moved round to the other side of the desk but stayed standing.
“I called you here so that I could thank you for all your hard work over …”
“You’re getting rid of me.”
Morton thought that Bunayega looked like a particularly disaffected bulldog at that moment.
“I’m sorry. Has someone already spoken to you?”
“They didn’t need to. I knew what was happening as soon as you brought that Druhl in here.”
“Druhl? I’m sorry, what is that? Druhl, I mean.”
Bunayega affected an air of disdain. “There isn’t a direct translation. It refers to someone who is subservient, an underling perhaps involved in a mutually beneficial partnership. But a willing one. Parasite is perhaps a little too strong a word.”
That’s interesting, Morton thought. Even though Bunayega had no idea of Hermendal’s rather unique skill set, he was already wary of him. And that before they had even been formally introduced. Perhaps she had misjudged Bunayega, he seemed more astute than she’d actually given him credit for.
“Thank you for clarifying that,” she said coolly. “Forgive me, but is that the way that Sunderam himself views you? As his Druhl?”
Bunayega’s response to this was so marked that Morton instantly regretted saying anything. She might well be exhausted but there was never any excuse for rudeness. Bunayega was the one who was being ‘let go’, and, regardless of the circumstances, he was well within his rights to be annoyed. No good would come from insulting him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean what I said.”
“But that’s what you think?” he had an unfortunate laugh. “That Sunderam put me up to this?”
Morton couldn’t help but frown. She really was too tired for all this, perhaps it would have been best if she’d left this until the morning.
“Sunderam sent you – I don’t know how else to put this – to spy on me. That is right isn’t it?”
Bunayega seemed to relax at that point, like a chess player whose opponent had just exposed their queen.
“English is so limited when it comes to words like ‘spying’ and ‘surveillance,’” he said as he sat down. “They all have negative connotations, no doubt because you value your own inner privacy so greatly,” he drummed his fingers on his own implant. “A Yakutian would quickly go mad without the ability to convene with others. For us, it is a blessed relief that we can share our thoughts with those whose opinions we not only trust but crave. We don’t see any of this as being in any way intrusive.”
“And on that, we must agree to disagree. I can’t think of anything worse than constantly having someone rummaging through your thoughts. It’s unnatural.”
“Which is why your people are already doomed, doctor. Instantaneous communication is the way forward. It provides instant access to worlds beyond imagining while you still have to sift through everything manually on those tablet things of yours. I’d rather be dead than data-blind.”
“Data-blind? Is that what I am?”
“I’m afraid so. And for us, that is the worst kind of punishment. Being data-blind leads you to jump to erroneous conclusions simply because you’re denying yourself access to all the facts. And this is true of you when you assume that I am spying on you for the commander. You see, while Commander Sunderam is indeed my superior officer, in many ways he is also my social inferior.”
“Oh,” Morton leaned so far back on her seat that she nearly fell over. She clearly hadn’t heard him correctly. Then the realisation kicked in. “Oh, I understand now: your members of different houses, aren’t you? And I suppose that your house is in the ascendancy. Is that what you call it?”
Bunayega had his hands folded in his lap as if he was coaching a particularly challenging student. “That is correct.”
“But then if Sunderam didn’t send you…”
She didn’t need Bunayega to say anything else. The smugness of his smile was all the answer she needed.
“Mahbarat? You’re a member of Captain Mahbarat’s house?”
“The House of Attrition. Yes, that’s correct. And, while you may think that you’ve succeeded in getting rid of me, I’m afraid that you are in for quite a considerable shock.”
Morton had a clear sense at that moment of losing control, of everything moving inexorably beyond her reach.
“They’re removing me from the project?”
“No, not you, surgeon captain. Your role is vital in this piece of theatre. You must remain in place until the final act. No, the one person who is most at danger from the failure of this task is Commander Sunderam himself. Did you not think it strange that our captain would have engineered all this just to allow him the pleasure of gloating over a defeated enemy?”
Well, no. She hadn’t thought that at all. Though she had believed Mahbarat when he’d said that he wanted to review the nature of Faulkner’s many victories.
Could she have really been so naïve?
Bunayega continued, “While it is touching that you think that the captain engineered all this for a few minutes with a Confederation prisoner he might have had killed at a moment’s notice, the truth is less clear. More opaque. Your Captain Faulkner is merely the bait in a very ornate trap. A trap which was designed to snare Commander Sunderam himself. And it is one which you have helped to spring.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Commander Sunderam is a traitor who has shown more interest in saving the lives of foreign nationals than he has in the pursuance of his allotted duties. Anyone who doubts that need only look to his close relationship with a female Confederation officer.”
Female Confederation officer. So that was what this was all about?
Less about Faulkner and more about the Yakutian’s ingrained prejudice towards women?
They were trying to compromise him over his relationship with her.
Morton stood up and came quickly around the table, her sense of injustice giving her fresh energy.
“That’s ridiculous. The commander is motivated by nobler virtues. He hopes that by sharing what we know about the re-animation process he might be able to share that knowledge with your people.”
“Which can never happen.”
Morton stared at him blankly. Surely, any medical breakthrough had to be a good thing?
“Don’t you see,” Bunayega went on. “In order to survive a cryogenic freeze like this a Yakutian would have to sacrifice his neurological implants.”
“But those could be restored, surely?”
“Only partially. They’d be left as a pale shadow of their former self. Think of all the memories and knowledge that would be lost in such a procedure. The person who survived such a process would be hardly more than a zombie – capable of movement but little else. With their connection with their brethren destroyed they would be like lost souls, searching for a purpose that had been stolen from them.”
“Is that so terrible. To be alone, like that. That’s the reality which most people in the Confederation deal with on a daily basis: to strive for a future which isn’t set in stone, and hasn’t already been pre-determined by someone else. To live an independent life.”
“Exactly, surgeon captain. And for that reason alone, you will always have my pity.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Mullens worked hard to bring the shuttle in as gently as he could, easing the nose up in an attempt to arrest the speed of their descent as he attempted to dissipate the heat of their entry more evenly across the shuttle’s fuselage. Then, at barely ten thousand feet, his tactics changed. Braking hard to the left, he deployed a series of countermeasures before dropping down to five hundred feet in an attempt to throw off any ground units who might be targeting them.
In short, a typical combat landing.
For the passengers, the sensation was not dissimilar to having driven your car directly into an elevator shaft.
Webster was pinned against his seat and twice had to force down the vomit which rose to the back of his throat.
It was Markham’s voice which came over the intercom.
“Okay, listen up, everybody. You all have your instructions. Stick with your fire teams and effect your exit as quickly as possible. The aim is to re-convene at rally point alpha at O- seven hundred hours. In the event that things go south, we’ll see you at rally point bravo at oh nine hundred. Failing that, you’re all walking home.”
A subdued ripple of laughter came through from the main hold.
“Mullens has instructions to minimise his time on the ground today and would appreciate a swift ex-fil. We’re going to be a little exposed down here and after what happened earlier we can’t afford to take any chances.”
What happened earlier?
It took Webster’s drug addled brain a while to realise what Markham was talking about.
He was talking about the Dardelion. Their ship was gone, along with all her crew.
How could such a thing happen?
As the engine’s note shifted from a moan to a full-blown wail, Mullens flicked up a few switches on the overhead monitor before dipping the nose down hard and to the right. Webster was thrown against his restraints where he found himself in the unenviable position of looking straight down at the ground.
At the last moment the nose came up and they hit the ground hard, sending a jolt up through Webster’s spine. If that’s what it felt like through his armoured chair he wondered what it must have felt like for those sitting in the cheap seats.
Before he even had time to remove his restraints, Webster heard the familiar clank and hum of machinery as the cargo doors opened. He unstrapped himself and climbed out of his seat before pulling on his jacket and grabbing his pack.
Next thing, he was struggling to fight his way out through the main cabin and down the main ramp. For a moment, he was blinded by the daylight, and might have missed his footing if he hadn’t blundered into the back of one of the Marines.
“This way, sir,” the man said, placing a hand firmly between his shoulders to remind him to keep his head down.
Then they were running across unfamiliar terrain which was hard and frozen. The air quality was poor and within a minute, Webster’s body was bathed in sweat. He had hoped that once they were clear of the shuttle, their pace might slacken but that didn’t prove to be the case.
I’m going to have to stop, he told himself.
But every time he did so, the Marine at his side would grab him and attempt to pull him along.
“Sir, we’re falling behind. We have to keep up.”
Things only got worse when they came to a sharp incline and after a few steps he found himself struggling just to breathe. Still, his companion refused to let up and he had to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. The air was bitterly cold so that every breath was a jagged pleasure.
