The silver fleet the com.., p.98
The Silver Fleet: The Complete Series, page 98
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Well, aren’t you going to at least check?”
“No. I’m sorry, I’ve done all I can.”
He spoke to the person behind her and beckoned them forward. Morton found herself side-lined.
Her guards had stood off to one side while she’d been waiting and might have abandoned her at this juncture but instead they seemed intent on following her everywhere. She was on the point of heading inside when she was distracted by the sound of pipes.
The sound was so wholly unexpected that she stopped and turned, as did a great number of others. She hadn’t heard music since coming aboard the Serrayu and it was only now that she realised how much she’d missed it. Ignoring her guards, she pushed through the crowds in order to seek out the musicians because now it was apparent that the piper was not alone.
There were three of them: the pipe player who was at the front followed by a fiddler and what she could only describe as a lute player. But strangely, these weren’t the main attraction for they were leading a whole procession which had entered from one of the main corridors. There were eight dancers, all dressed in white who were performing a very unsophisticated though hugely energetic little dance. These were followed by a short procession made up of more women than Morton had seen since entering the ship followed by the main attraction: a woman dressed in white and red who was throwing tokens into the crowd from a large wicker basket.
She turned to her guards.
“It’s a wedding! A wedding? Surely not?”
They paid her no heed though they were quite happy to stand and watch.
The bride walked under a massive parasol supported by four pole carriers and suspended from the top of this parasol were lengths of colourful ribbons. There must have been ten of these which were revolving slowly held by men in some kind of traditional costume.
She looked around, eager to discuss this with someone but there was no one that she could speak with and, besides, they were all too busy watching the procession.
Then, from somewhere, she heard her name being called.
“Doctor Morton! Doctor Morton! This way!”
She turned about, confused. There were so many people around that she didn’t know where to look.
“Over here,” the voice was little more than a whisper.
When she turned, she was confronted by a Yakutian officer carrying a wicker basket similar to the bride. Though, on closer inspection, she realised that this was only half the story.
“Hermendal!” she said, also lowering her voice. “What the hell, are you doing dressed like that?”
“Oh this? Well, it seems that I’m some sort of senior officer,” he indicated his uniform which was too tight in the jacket and much too long in the leg. He even had a fake implant curled around one ear. “And I’ve been tasked with over-seeing all this, which has been great fun. Here, have a Lucky Eye.”
He gave her a foil package from his basket. Morton took it, looked at it, looked across at the bride and then back to him.
“You know what they’ll do to you if they catch you wearing that.”
He lowered his head and spoke gravely. “Let me assure you that no one is more aware of that than I. They’ve been dragging off all kinds of people and so I thought I’d be better off hiding in plain sight.”
Morton shook the little envelope.
He stretched out his arm so that she could better examine his sleeve. His cuff was an embossed black design with what looked like tartan trim.
“House of Forbearance,” he said. “Seems that they’re with the good guys - for the moment, at least. No telling when that might change, though.”
“What’s this?” she asked, inspecting the envelope.
“It’s a present from the bride. Supposed to bring good luck.”
“Odd time to be getting married.”
“Is there ever a good time?”
A group of soldiers came over and stood beside them. Hermendal gave them a handful of little envelopes and they went off bickering.
“No, it seems there’s some kind of precedent here,” Hermendal explained. “After a battle, if someone was injured and it looked like they weren’t going to make it, they’d bring his fiancée up to the front and they’d get married.”
“Oh, I get it. When he dies, she’s eligible for a war widow’s pension. So, what’s wrong with the groom?”
“Nothing. I mean, he’s wounded but it’s nothing. Just a scratch.”
“Then why are they getting married?”
“Because if they do it now, they won’t have to foot the bill. Think about it: in the old days, this young couple would be broke - they couldn’t afford to pay for a wedding. So the lead warrior would have to pick up the bill. The dress, the reception, that kind of thing. So, that’s what they’re doing now. Sort of a loophole they’re exploiting.”
Morton waved at the bride who waved back, giving her a beaming smile. Morton couldn’t but think back to her own wedding.
“Let me get this straight. Sunderam is paying for all this?”
“That’s right. Not that he’s in much of a position to say no. After all, this young guy was putting his life on the line for him just a few hours ago, so it all levels out in the end, eh?”
“Yes, well, speaking of that,” she grabbed his arm and pulled him back into the crowd. “I sort of need your help.”
Hermendal gave her a dejected look then turned to someone in the crowd. He handed the man the basket and then moved back out of the main thoroughfare.
“What is it?”
“I need your help trying to find someone.”
“Anyone I know?”
“A young man who helped me get Captain Faulkner off the ship.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Bayas. I don’t know the rest. He was part of the medical team who assisted me with Faulkner’s case.”
“Have you tried the people in the centre? They seem to be the ones in charge, right now.”
“I tried asking them, but they weren’t much interested.”
“No, really?” he gently moved Morton to one side. “Let me deal with this.”
*
Morton stood back as Hermendal approached the admin area. He spoke to one of the people manning the main desk who went off only to return a few minutes later with the administrator Morton had spoken with previously. But where the administrator had been frosty and difficult with her, it seemed that there was little if anything he wasn’t prepared to do for Hermendal, checking and re-checking his facts until both of them were satisfied.
However, when Hermendal returned to Morton, he didn’t look at all happy with the results.
“What’s wrong?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yeah, ‘fraid so.”
Hermendal couldn’t look her in the eye. “It’s not as bad as you think.”
“So, he’s not dead then.”
“Not yet, at least.”
With that, Hermendal walked past her and kept going around the side of the administrative hub.
“Where are you going?”
He didn’t say anything. Instead, he simply waved in the direction he was headed and she had to run to catch up. Over to her right she could see the two Scarpi guards who were now searching the crowd looking for her.
By this point she was starting to get confused as she had no idea where Hermendal was taking her. And then she saw that he was heading towards a side area which had been separated off from the main foyer. It was a grim set up with armed guards strutting about the place as if expecting trouble. No one looked at them except at one point when Morton slowed down and casually ran her hand over a barrier at waist height. One of the soldiers came over and shook his head. Then she was left to catch up with Hermendal who slipped quickly under the barrier but then waited for her to catch up.
“He should be in here, somewhere.”
A long awning ran the length of one wall, around a hundred metres. It was hot and dimly lit under there, the press of bodies raising the humidity to unpleasant levels. The prisoners she’d seen earlier were organised into holding areas of either six or twelve men, separated off from one another by various parked motor vehicles. Armed guards patrolled the outer strip and speaking seemed to have been outlawed because everyone stood around in virtual silence.
“Let’s split up,” Hermendal whispered. “See if we can spot him but whatever you do, don’t approach him. Just stay where you are and I’ll come and get you. You don’t speak the language – you’ll only make matters worse.”
And, so saying, they went their separate ways.
Finding Bayas was harder than she thought as the men stood round in tight groups, often facing the opposite way and Morton quickly became confused, forgetting who she’d seen and who she hadn’t though she was worried that if she stayed in one place for too long she was likely to draw the attention of the guards.
Every once in a while, a whole group would be summoned and Morton had to try and quickly identify them while they were moving past. On a few occasions she saw individuals who matched Bayas’ general description but she approached them only to be disappointed when they drew nearer. And the longer she lingered the greater the sense of urgency.
At one point, her way was barred by a group of prisoners being turned out of their holding area. She had to wait for them to pass but one of the men, his face a mass of cuts and contusions seemed strangely drawn to her. Ignoring the instructions from the guards, he made to approach her. One of the guards grabbed hold of the ropes which bound the man’s arms but this only seemed to infuriate him and he bounded forward intent, it seemed, on taking a lump out of her.
The guard who was restraining him was trying to grab his blaster but couldn’t do so for fear of losing his grip. Then, another guard stepped forward and shot the man between the shoulder blades using his blaster. The man shouted something at Morton but reserved his strongest rebuke for the young guard who had been pulled to the ground when the prisoner collapsed. Another guard was ordered forward and he and the younger guard spent some time getting the prisoner to his feet while, all the while, the senior officer kept the others covered with his blaster.
When they eventually succeeded in getting the prisoner to his feet, she saw that he’d sustained a deep cut over one eye which was bleeding profusely. Stepping forward, she saw that his whole face was a mass of cuts and bruises, plus he appeared to be missing most of his teeth.
She appealed to the senior guard to be allowed to examine him but the man was in no mood to be compassionate. He pointed the blaster at her and twitched his wrist, indicating for her to step aside.
She didn’t need telling twice but as she tried to get out of the way, she ended up nearly walking into two other prisoners.
Embarrassed, she tried to find some place she could go but the place was already cramped and there was nowhere else to go.
Then, as she made to apologise, she thought she recognised one of them.
“Bayas?”
“Surgeon captain,” he seemed as surprised to see her as she was him. “What are you doing here?”
Morton looked back the way she’d come hoping to see Hermendal approaching but he was nowhere to be seen and the senior guard was barking at her to move.
“I could ask you the same question. I thought you were with the House of Fortitude. Aren’t they supposed to be the good guys?”
“At one point we were, yes,” he kept looking at the man with the blaster. “That was until one of our commanders, in a moment of inspiration decided to throw in his lot Captain Muhbarat. Now, Muhbarat’s dead, leaving us in a very difficult position.”
A guard moved up behind Bayas and poked him in the back with his billyclub before bundling the pair of them past her.
Morton wanted to follow but one look at the blaster dissuaded her.
“Where are they taking you now?” she shouted.
Bayas, when he did look back, looked somehow dismayed. “Haven’t you heard? We’re off to the arena – it’s not looking good.”
The guard kept the blaster levelled at her until Bayas had disappeared through a side door. When he finally did lower his weapon, he leered at Morton, clearly enjoying himself. He mimed placing a noose around his neck before pulling it taut while sticking out his tongue. He thought this was hilarious.
The sound of his laughter echoed around as she ran off in search of Hermendal.
CHAPTER FIVE
They were meeting in the conference room back at Camp Colditz. Nash sat with Markham and Webster on either side of him. Facing them across the table were Kekkonen, Dalbiri, Marsh and Hibbert. The seating plan was a direct reversal of how things had been arranged the first time they’d met here. A lot had happened in the past week. And not all of it was good.
At that first meeting, Nash had revealed his authorisation codes. He’d also told the scientists that with them he could get everyone on camp to do pretty much anything he wanted. And now he was making good on that claim. He’d removed Kekkonen as camp leader in order to establish his own base of operations, the fact that Kekkonen had not been around to resist only adding to Nash’s aura of authoritarian rule. It was a simple step then for him to commandeer a number of the camp’s technical staff to work directly under him as his assistants.
All this had been in place before Webster had been allowed to take the captured Da’al shuttle and go and locate the scientists who had been working on the alien ship site. In their efforts to elude the Da’al, the scientists had pressed on further into the mountains than anyone had anticipated and were running low on supplies when Webster finally managed to track them down. And it was only once they were safely ensconced back at Camp Colditz that Webster was able to strike out to collect Sergeant Markham and the rest of his Marines.
After that, Webster had slept for fourteen hours straight through.
Nash had initially set up a meeting for the day after Kekkonen’s people returned to camp but the big Norwegian had refused, saying that they needed more time as both Dalbiri and Hibbert were still suffering from frostbite. The extra twenty-four hours might have helped ease their symptoms but it had done nothing to lighten the mood in camp.
“I just wish you’d waited until we’d got back,” Kekkonen was saying. “You’ve taken up half my staff manning the comms, though God knows why.”
“Then you haven’t been paying attention, have you?” Nash said. “As of two days ago, this camp is under military jurisdiction. I don’t have to consult you about anything.”
Kekkonen refused to rise to this provocation. “And I don’t doubt that. But if you’re looking at running the camp efficiently, you’re going the wrong way about it. Duval and Chambers are our two most experienced comms operators and you’ve got them outside digging a trench.”
“We’re going to need extra power to beef up our comms overall. Without access to satellites we’re going to need to work smarter, not harder.”
“Why the obsession with comms all of a sudden?” Dalbiri wanted to know, his hands still wrapped in bandages. “Surely, we should be more concerned about the Da’al warship orbiting overhead.”
Nash indicated for Sergeant Markham to pick up on this.
“Currently the only threat that the Da’al ship seems to pose is one of an orbital bombardment. Although, to be quite frank, if they did decide to go down that route there’s not a damn thing we could do to stop them.”
“Any reason why you think they wouldn’t try and bomb us?” the diminutive Marsh looked out of place among everyone else.
“No reason at all. All I can think is that, after Commander Webster trashed half their camp, the powers that be back on the ship decided that a ground engagement wasn’t suiting their purposes. I think we’re looking at a major tactical change here but I think they’d only consider an orbital bombardment as an absolute last resort.”
“Yeah,” Dalbiri said. “I wouldn’t have wanted to be their camp commander when he got back to base. Was it three shuttles they lost? Not a great day at the office for him.”
“All courtesy of Commander Webster,” Hibbert pointed out, though more to undermine Nash in the eyes of the others than to celebrate Webster.
“Regardless,” Markham went on. “We’ve set up a proper perimeter round Colditz now so, if they do try to mount a second ground offensive, at least we’ll have some warning. Though if they come at us in force, there’s not a lot we can do.”
Nash got to his feet and picked up a metre long ruler that had been lying on the table.
“Which is why we shouldn’t waste any more time discussing it. No, the real reason we’re here is so I can fill you in on the current state of play.”
“Is this to do with that distress drone you sent?” Marsh asked, her disdain for Nash obvious.
Her remark appeared to catch Nash off his guard.
“That’s right. Why? What do you know about it?”
Marsh looked uncomfortable with everyone staring at her. “Nothing. All I know is that was the first thing you did once you got back here. Must have been important.”
Nash flexed the ruler between his hands.
“Good. Yes, we sent one direct to Lincoln Station, though by this point I imagine that word may have finally got back to Earth Prime.”
“And what did you say in this here drone?” Dalbiri said. “Aliens are unfriendly - please advise.”
That got a laugh from the assembled scientists with even Markham having to suppress a smile.
“No, not quite. But I did tell them the real reason they’re unlikely to see us as a priority in the short term.” That seemed to get everyone’s attention. “In fact, the real reason they’re in this system in the first place.”
Marsh threw up her hands in frustration.
“And that is?”
Nash smiled and pointed to where Webster was sitting.
“Commander?”
Webster sat forward, steepling his fingers. He knew why Nash wanted him to tell this part – he was concerned that the others wouldn’t believe it coming from him. Not so much that it sounded so fanciful, more because most of them just didn’t trust Nash, period.
