Savage Fugitive

by Patrick G Cox

  Watching the approaching vehicle, Harry realised that it was headed for a large pool just downstream of their position. It pulled up and the crew disembarked.

  “They’re either bloody sloppy or they don’t expect to find anyone.” The Coxswain’s quiet comment caught Harry off guard. He had crept up close and crouched next to Harry.

  “You’re right. Maybe we can surprise them. There’s only eight of them, maybe one more in the vehicle.”

  “They’re setting up camp, and they’ve got a food replicator.” The Coxswain licked his lips.

  Harry’s stomach grumbled as if in reply; their rations were desperately low. Food was the single biggest problem they faced. There’d been nothing in Daring’s record of what this planet had in the way of food that was edible for humans. The risky process of tasting small quantities of the animals they hunted or the berries they found to determine whether the food was edible meant they were often hungry if it produced a bad reaction in Harry, who always volunteered to be the guinea pig. One such experiment had produced such a violent reaction that he had almost killed himself eating the meat of a small animal, which turned out to be toxic.

  A plan formed in his mind.

  “Swain,” he whispered. “They’re settling down for the night, but I have a plan that will get us some fresh supplies and new equipment. I will enjoy riding something other than Shank’s Pony for a few miles at least.”

  “Shank’s Pony…?” The Coxswain looked baffled. He was used to Harry’s old-fashioned euphemisms, but this was a new one on him.

  Harry chuckled. “It means having to walk because you’re too poor to afford a horse — yes, I know, my Irish roots are showing.” He cleared his throat in slight embarrassment and became serious. “We want their boots, the food replicator and everything they use for communication. I don’t want them calling up help until we’re miles away.” His hunger and the prospect of being able to enjoy travelling by some means other than his blistered feet made him a little rash.

  “Okay, sir, I’m on it. I’ll get the rest of the crew.”

  Creeping closer to the Consortium camp, Harry and TechRate Will Turner were surprised at the casual attitude of the camp’s occupants. None of the men seemed to be keeping any sort of lookout, though all were soldiers.

  Harry and Will stood motionless when a voice called, “Razi, report us in place and camp set in.”

  “Gotcha, Corp,” came the response from the vehicle.

  “There is one in the vehicle at least,” Harry whispered. “And the rest seem to be enjoying their supper.” Focusing his mind, he found himself linked to the vehicle’s rather simple-minded onboard computer. Listening carefully, he tracked the message the operator sent out and realised this was one of a chain of search teams. It alarmed him to learn that he and his crew were surrounded.

  “We’re inside a ring of these patrols,” he whispered. “Trapped.” The conversation of the group reached him.

  “What do you reckon, Corp?” said one of the men at the replicator. “Do you think we’ll find these guys?”

  “Nah, their corpses maybe. It’s been eight weeks now. They haven’t got the equipment to survive this long, and their ration packs will have run out weeks ago. Besides, if they’re still alive, they’re most likely camped on the easier ground to the east.”

  “What are the chances they’re hiding out with the locals?”

  “What, with the Rotties?” There was a sharp laugh. “What do you think? No one’s managed to tame them or even get close enough to talk to them. Nah, they’ll stay well away from them if they’re clever. The Rotties don’t like us humans — especially with us trying to take control of their towns. Anyone running into them could be in trouble.”

  “Heard the scientists aren’t having any luck with their examination of the material their buildings are made out of, either. Seems those things have some sort of artificial intelligence. Any electronic equipment they take inside goes haywire, if that makes any sense.”

  “Ha. Not a lot. We killed a lot of Rotties for nothing. Too bad — I was hoping to tame a few for pet dogs.” He gave a snort of laughter and a sarcastic grin.

  “Good luck with that!” said the other. “You’ll be in his supper dish before you can say, ‘Good doggie.’”

  Harry had stopped listening to their banter when he heard the comment about electronic equipment being fried when taken into those buildings. That explains a lot, he mused, and put the thought in the back of his mind for now.

  Turning to Will Turner, he whispered, “Okay, Will, tell the Swain to be ready. I’ll disable the coms system first then make my move. As soon as I have their attention, I want you fellows to take them.”

  “Got you, sir.” Will moved stealthily away.

  Harry focused his attention on the vehicle’s AI and discovered that each vehicle — twenty of them — emitted a signal that reported the vehicle was operational and on its station. Damn, he thought, then realised that he could make that work to his advantage. He adjusted the program and watched as the next cycle of call, response and confirmation went through. Then he intervened again, telling the AI to log but not send any communication other than the automatic signal.

  The AI resisted, but Harry overrode this, taking the precaution of disabling the connections between voice com and the uplink, and he ordered the computer to disable the personal comlinks that depended on the vehicle relay for long distance communication. He couldn’t trust the computer and didn’t have time to persuade it to accept his intentions, so he disabled the parts of it that posed a threat. When he caught the Coxswain’s hand signal, he drew a deep breath and stood up. He reached the first survival dome without being spotted, and then he stepped out into the open.

  “Bloody hell.” A soldier dropped his tray and reached for his weapon when he saw Harry stagger toward him gasping for breath before he collapsed. When the other soldiers caught sight of Harry, they grabbed their weapons and kept him in their sights as they advanced.

  As he had hoped, the soldiers clustered round him wondering if he was dead or alive. The Corporal dropped to his knees and lay down his weapon to turn Harry over.

  “Bloody hell” was all he managed to say before Harry’s plasma projector made contact with his chest, paralysing him.

  Before the other men could react, the Coxswain’s voice rang across the clearing. “Freeze! The first man that moves will be charred where he stands.”

  The soldiers froze.

  “Step back from my officer,” the Coxswain ordered. “And put down your weapons — easy, there! My lads will fry anyone who moves too quickly.”

  “You won’t get away with this,” the Corporal snarled, having recovered from the initial stun. “My ComOp will have sent out our distress call already.” He gasped for breath at the effort it took just to speak.

  “I don’t think so,” Harry said, rising to his feet as soon as Ranji Singh restrained the Corporal. “I took care of that before we interrupted your little dinner party.”

  The Corporal cursed as the ComOp dismounted rather violently from the vehicle, the burly figure of Errol Hill emerging behind him followed by a grinning Maddie Hodges.

  “He was a bit distracted, Corp. Funny that,” she added, adjusting her tattered jacket.

  Harry’s proper upbringing meant he didn’t quite get her meaning at first, or the reason for her impish grin, but it made him feel rattled nonetheless, so he quickly turned to address the Corporal.

  “I’m afraid we have greater need of your equipment and transport than you have,” he said. “I’d be obliged if you ordered your men to strip. We need your coveralls, boots, and comlinks. We’re in a hurry, so quick as you can, please.” He caught the crafty gleam in the Corporal’s eye. “And before you try anything clever, we’ll start with you. Sit down and remove your boots, all of you — now!”

  “You’ll have our people swarming all over you soon, mister,” the Corporal snarled, even as he obe
yed Harry’s order. “Our vehicles are monitored constantly. Any failure to report at regular intervals is taken as a call for assistance.”

  “Thank you for telling me that, but it’s old news.” Harry smiled, his projector unwavering. “I’ve already dealt with it.”

  “Impossible. No one can alter that system unless they can get into the program itself.”

  The Corporal seemed very confident, so Harry checked the network to make sure. “Maybe someone did.” He grinned to rub in the insult. “Now, Corporal, I very much regret that we cannot leave you or your men free, even in your underwear. I’d be obliged if you would all fit yourselves into your survival shelter, please. We have good reason to know how cold the nights are at this altitude, and I would not wish you to die of it.”

  “This way, Corporal.” The Coxswain was firm. “Stennet, Brydges — full body search on everyone. No tools and definitely no comlinks — make sure none of them have anything hidden.”

  “No way are you going to get away with this,” the Corporal protested angrily. “Its against the Convention!”

  “Haven’t noticed any of your lot following the Convention,” snorted the Coxswain. “Morati, anyone resists, you know how to deal with them.”

  “I got you, Swain.” The big man grinned broadly and flexed his shoulders then smacked his fist into his opposite palm. “Okay, friends, get in line. Let’s see what you’re hiding. Go on, I’ve got a few complaints I want to settle with someone.”

  Harry decided he shouldn’t be watching this and moved to the transport, leaving his crew to sort out their prisoners. He knew he could trust the Coxswain not to break any of the Convention rules, but felt he shouldn’t be there to see any ‘bends’ the Chief Master Warrant might put in it. He busied himself interrogating the Consortium’s transport systems, and learned a great deal about the terrain and the disposition of their pursuers — and, best of all, he managed to hack into a database that gave him valuable information on the native population and their habits.

  He was feeling a lot more confident of their survival as they crammed themselves into the transport and headed off into the night.

  Chapter 10 — Ferghal’s Fury

  Ferghal was tired and angry. Doctor Melville Wan and his team treated him like the lab rat they considered him. Strapped to a padded table, his head held in a brace to prevent his moving it, he was inside a scanning machine, unable to see anything except the polished metal of the tube.

  The latest series of tests involved an attempt to trigger his cyberlink by sending it a stream of data, all of which he concentrated on blocking.

  “It’s not working,” said the doctor. “Let’s try sedating him. Maybe then it won’t be so easy for him to resist our commands.”

  Ferghal swore violently when he felt the needle penetrate the vein in his heel. “Be damned, the lot of you! I’ll not tell you a bloody thing, ye black-hearted scum.” His accent descended rapidly into the slightly harsh tones of his homeland, the lush hills of north County Down, Ireland.

  Ignoring the protests of the MedTech operating the scanner, Doctor Wan ordered, “Commence the trial again. The drug will take a few seconds to take effect. Start the test sequence.”

  Inside his prison, Ferghal fought to stay conscious as the drug coursed through him. His hands and feet went numb, and the paralysis crept up his legs and arms. His body went limp, and to his embarrassment, he lost control of his bladder. This sparked his fury. They had humiliated him, and he would not give them the satisfaction they sought. His roiling anger helped, and his mind cleared of the creeping fog that had been seeping into his consciousness. Now he’d bloody well show them.

  He linked to their equipment.

  “It’s working.” Doctor Wan studied his display, a note of satisfaction in his voice. Then everything went haywire.

  “Shut down the network!” the laboratory supervisor ordered. “Quickly — he’s altering the programs!”

  “I can’t.” The technician sounded desperate. “He’s blocked all exit and input commands, and now the power seems to be on the emergency supply, which I can’t shut down from here.”

  “Don’t do anything,” the doctor ordered. “This is fascinating. I want it recorded.” He gasped as the screen flashed up a message.

  THERE WILL BE NO RECORDING, YOU BASTARD.

  The stench of scorched and burning electrical components filled the room. “Put the fire out!” shouted Doctor Wan. “Do it now! The record must be saved!”

  Ferghal’s fury knew no boundaries. Now that he was inside the lab’s network, he was hell bent on destroying it and everything it contained. For a few seconds it put up a fight, but it was no match for an angry man who had learned to build these systems. He knew exactly how to cause its failure, and he set about doing it. The AI was reduced to gibbering idiocy within minutes.

  The laboratory staff were close to panic as everything around them failed. The replicators spat out useless rubbish, offal, stinking goo and anything else they were instructed by the commands that Ferghal ordered. The lights flickered and failed, necessitating a scramble to find portable lights since the emergency circuit could not be activated.

  Finally, someone had the wits to drag Ferghal out of the scanner and cut the power cable to it. Unbeknownst to his tormentors, however, Ferghal was still linked to what was left of the AI. Even better, the restoration of feeling in his limbs told him the drug was losing its grip, something his tormentors wouldn’t know if he had anything to do with it.

  The doctor was beside himself. “What have you done?” he shouted at the immobilised figure on the table.

  “Paid you back in spades for what ye’ve done to me and my friend Harry, you scum,” Ferghal spat back. Now his cunning kicked in, and he feigned paralysis for several long seconds. Then, amping up the drama, he faked a violent tremor. When the “tremor” eased, he lay gasping for breath before he shot a fierce look at the doctor. “Why can’t I control my limbs? What have you done to me, you vile tormentor?”

  “The drugs are taking effect at last,” breathed one of the technicians.

  “Too late,” snarled the supervisor. He turned to the doctor. “I warned you this could happen.” To his assistants he said, “Get him out of that damned scanner and into his cell. I’ll have to contact the Base and get the AI people over to sort out the system. It’s basically fried.” He stamped out of the room, and his assistants set about freeing Ferghal, thinking him paralysed.

  No sooner was the last restraint released than he exploded off the table. One man went down with a broken jaw. Another landed on the floor seconds later clutching his groin and retching in pain. The third had more sense. He dodged Ferghal and tried to push a console between them. It didn’t save him.

  Vaulting the obstruction, Ferghal landed like a cat and grabbed the nearest technician, using the unfortunate man as a weapon. The doctor found himself the target of the enraged Irishman’s fists and suffered a broken nose and a concussion as his head made contact with the wall. He would have suffered even worse if the guards hadn’t arrived at that moment.

  There was a flash, and with a grunt, Ferghal folded and collapsed. The guard eased out of his crouch in the doorway and surveyed the lab, his stun pistol at the ready. The laboratory was a scene of devastation. Ferghal had taken out his rage and frustration on everything and everyone. No one seemed to have escaped his fists or his feet.

  The guard grinned. Hell, I don’t even want to know what he would have done if he’d had a weapon! He wiped the smile from his face and made way for the rest of the guard.

  Brigadier Newton listened in cold fury to the reports of the events in the research laboratory. These researchers seemed to have no consideration for anything or anyone. Their ‘research’ overrode every other consideration, moral or ethical. Doctor Wan sat opposite her, his face showing the effects of Ferghal’s assault. A surgical splint covered his battered nose, and both his eyes were puffed up, the area around them
dark with bruising.

  Doctor Wan spoke first, wanting the upper hand. “I must insist that we be allowed to take him back to a research facility on Eritrea Five.” He winced in pain. It took every bit of effort to speak without jolts of agony shooting through his face. “It’s obvious we will have to carry out an investigation by vivisection. There is no other way to ensure he can’t resist our investigations.”

  “No,” the Brigadier snapped. “He’s a prisoner of war and entitled to my protection. I won’t allow another damned Pangaea situation. He stays here! We can control his access to the AI and prevent him doing anything like this again — and I must remind you that we warned you this could happen. You ignored it. Now you’ve come very close to compromising everything we’re doing. That I won’t allow.”

  The doctor grunted in protest. “Then let us take him somewhere else. Once we have him in our laboratory, he isn’t your problem.”

  “Hasn’t it occurred to you that if he gets on a ship, he’ll get into the AI network, and you won’t get to your destination? You saw what happened to the lab network when he went berserk inside it. There’s no way I can let you put a ship at risk like that.” Her expression told the doctor not to push his luck.

  The doctor shifted in his seat to find a more comfortable position, but everything hurt. He let out a shaky breath and decided to take a placatory approach. “Brigadier, at least allow us to continue our observation of him. Perhaps if we can get him to lower his guard we will be able to get some idea of how exactly he is able to work inside a closed, secure AI network.”

  “Very well, but there will be no further risk of his getting anywhere near our main system in any way whatsoever. Am I clear?” She fixed the doctor with a cold stare. “Just one more thing. No drugs, no invasive procedures, and definitely no attempts at any form of torture, physical or mental. Any hint of any of that in future, and you had better believe me when I say that I will personally put you and your team in a place no one will ever find you.”