by Glenn Smith
No, Dylan mouthed silently, shaking his head briefly and then stopping because it hurt too much. But apparently his vote didn’t count, because no sooner had he stopped shaking his head when he heard someone approaching. Two lights shone on the deck in front of him, then scanned up the far wall, over the window, and crisscrossed on the ceiling. Then they crisscrossed again as they moved back down the wall to the deck again.
He wouldn’t fight them, he decided. He couldn’t. He was too badly hurt and didn’t have anything left in his tank to fight with. And damned if he was going to risk killing anyone else.
He shrank back into the corner as far as he could, willing himself to blend into the wall as their footsteps reached the door and stopped. The dry-dock lights shining in through the window illuminated the tiny room just enough that the SPs outside would see him if they stepped inside, even without their flashlights. In fact, they probably wouldn’t even have to step in. If just one of them happened to look in at exactly the right angle, they might see his reflection in the window, faint and insubstantial though it would be in the semi-matte transluminum.
If only he’d thought to wear clothes that matched the color of the walls. Then he’d blend in and his reflection wouldn’t cause him as much concern. But he hadn’t thought of that. Had he really been out of the field so long that he’d forgotten the concept of camouflage—the basic rules of cover and concealment? How could he have been so stupid?
So he couldn’t count on camouflage. Nor could he risk lying down flat to make himself a less substantial target. They’d surely pick up on the movement. All he could do was sit there as still as possible and hold his breath, painful as that was, while their flashlights continued dancing silently around the room, and hope they didn’t have hand-scanners... or see his reflection in the window... or walk in.
“What do you think?” one of them asked. Shit! They were right there, on the other side of the door!
“Looks clear to me,” another answered. “Let’s go.”
The light beams whipped out of the room a second later, and three sets of heavy footfalls receded back up the corridor.
At least, Dylan hoped he was hearing all three.
He let out his breath... quietly. That had been too close. They’d literally come to within a few feet of finding him, and there were probably more of them joining the search every minute. He had to get off the ship, and fast.
He waited for a few seconds after he couldn’t hear their footsteps anymore, then slowly stood up, being careful to make as little noise as possible and to stay clear of the doorway. Then he paused to listen again. Still quiet. He leaned out, peeked around the door and down the length of the corridor for just a second, then pulled back and listened once more for several seconds. When he heard no noise and saw no flashlight beams, he peeked out again. Then, as soon as he felt sure enough that the coast was clear, he stepped back into the corridor and continued on as quietly as he could.
He reached the dining hall and ascended the gangway to deck four without incident. But as he hurried back through the corridors toward the staging area, ignoring his growing pain as best he could, he nearly came face-to-face with another SP patrol. The only thing that saved him was the fortunate fact that the doors to one of the various cargo holds had been removed, which allowed him to duck inside and lose himself in the darkness.
The fortunate fact? Had he gotten lucky... again? Somehow he didn’t think so. He was beginning to believe that something more really was involved.
As soon as the immediate threat had passed, he made his way safely back to the staging area. But his struggle was by no means over. He knew that as soon as he opened that airlock he was going to have another fight on his hands, and in his condition... To have come so far and failed. The mere thought of giving up left a bad taste in his mouth.
He had no choice. If he was going to have any chance at all of escaping, he was going to have to strike first and strike hard. And then he was going to have to move fast, because whoever had raised the alarm in Dock Control in the first place was going to know as soon as the airlock doors opened that the subject of their search was on his way off the ship. And it was only going to take that person about two seconds to send in the troops.
He limped into the control pod and powered up the console—with the lifts active, power consumption wasn’t a concern anymore—set a five second delay, and then slammed the initiate lever forward and limped up onto the airlock platform. At least he had surprise on his side.
The green indicator light started flashing. The doors opened.
He laid the first guard out with a right cross before he saw it coming. The second fought back, but Dylan knocked him on his back and choked him out until he lost consciousness.
Fortunately, there weren’t any more of them… not right there at least.
* * *
“Subject is exiting de ship!” Ensign Bu’Tan exclaimed.
Major Ross touched his finger to his comm-link. “Airlock team, this is Ross.” No one responded. “Airlock team, Sergeant Fredericks or Corporal Hong, this is Major Ross. Respond, please.” Still no response. “Corporal Hong, come in.” Again, no one answered, and Ross decided not to waste any more time trying. “Can you track the subject, Ensign?” he asked as Lieutenant Commander Suarez, who hadn’t been able to sit by in his office any longer, looked on.
“Getting a fix now, sir,” Bu’Tan answered.
“Which way is he heading?”
“Stand by.” Bu’Tan scanned the security tracker and reported, “Subject is heading out of bay twelve toward...” Suddenly, the blip on the security board went blank. “I lost him!”
“What do you mean, you lost him?” Ross asked in angry bewilderment.
“I mean I lost him, sir!” His fingers started dancing over the controls. “I lost de signal! I had him, and den I didn’t have him!”
“Get him back, Ensign!” Suarez ordered.
“I’m trying, sir!” the young Boshtahri protested.
Ross slapped the all-call on his comm-link. “All security patrols involved in the intruder alert, this is Major Ross. Subject is leaving bay twelve, direction unknown. Reinforce security in the area of bays ten through thirteen and close in on twelve.”
* * *
Dylan hobbled and staggered down the corridor just as fast as his tired and wounded legs would carry him, then climbed clumsily into the maintenance crawlway when he finally reached it. And not a moment too soon, either, he realized as he lay there clutching his tender, aching sides in his arms. He’d heard someone closing the distance behind him in hot pursuit and could still hear him barking orders to others back there. He kicked the screen closed behind him and regretted doing so immediately when his leg twinged in protest. He disregarded the door in favor of putting as much distance between himself and his pursuers as he could as quickly as possible. And then, as quickly and as quietly as he could, he crawled deeper and deeper into the tunnel, finally heading for home.
The struggle to retrace his route back through the maintenance tubes and crawlways was an arduous one that seemed like it took hours, but eventually, finally, he made it. He paused by the screen and waited until he couldn’t hear anyone, then climbed back out into the corridor near the medbay. Then, hoping that no one would notice him, he bowed his head and stared at the deck in front of him all the way back to his quarters.
He slipped through the door to his quarters and closed and locked it behind him, then fell back against it to hold himself up. He’d made it. By some miracle, he’d actually made it.
Sending wave after wave of excruciating pain pulsing through every muscles and bone in his body with every movement, he stripped off his dirty, tattered clothes and his underwear, then went into the bathroom and peeled off the torn, loose-hanging remains of his old-age appliances. He spat a fair amount of blood into the sink and then rinsed out his mouth and examined his tongue in the mirror. Surprisingly, considering how much it had bled, the bite was a relatively minor one.
&nb
sp; He spat once more—much less blood this time—then looked his face over closely in the mirror. Most of the right side was a little swollen, but not so much that he couldn’t explain it away as some sort of sports injury if he had to. Other than that, he was good. As for his body...
Fearing the worst, he limped back into his room and faced his full-length dressing mirror, and was quite surprised to discover that overall he actually didn’t look that bad. He wasn’t nearly as beaten and banged-up looking as he’d expected to be. The inside of his right thigh sported a small phased-energy burn, but he could treat and bandage that himself, and his uniform trousers would hide it. What worried him the most were his ribs. Thanks to that God-forsaken Veshtonn creature back on Cirra—Professor Min’para had identified it as a Vul-Veshtonn—he knew from personal experience what broken ribs felt like, and he felt pretty sure that he had at least a few of them now. If they weren’t broken clean through, then they were at least cracked, and although no one would ever see the bruises that were already beginning to appear, the pain wasn’t going to be nearly as easy to hide.
He could only hope that his next several nights of work might turn out to be as quiet and uneventful as the previous two cycles had been. Fortunately, he had the next couple of nights off to rest and start recovering before he had to go back.
He grabbed a long, wide, pressure-bandage out of the ‘Standard-Issue’ cabinet at the foot of his bed and wrapped it firmly around his chest, then picked up his old man’s clothes and...
His handcomp wasn’t clipped to the belt! He searched the pockets, even though it would barely fit in them. He searched the floor around where he’d dropped the clothes when he took them off. Nothing. Shit! He’d lost his handcomp! But where? He’d covered so much ground. The corridors, the maintenance tunnels and crawlways, the ship’s corridors and shafts… He had to find it. He had to find it before someone else did! But he wasn’t in any shape to go after it. Not right away, at least. His body simply wouldn’t stand up to any more punishment. Besides, if he did go all the way back to the ship, he’d probably still find it crawling with security police troops when he got there. He wouldn’t have any freedom of movement.
He’d have to wait at least until tomorrow. Perhaps a lot longer than that.
He limped back into the bathroom and treated and bandaged the burn on his thigh. That done, he picked up the remnants of his facial appliances and threw them and his old man clothes into the disposal unit. Then, without even thinking about taking a shower first, he went back into the room, pulled on a clean pair of underwear, and gingerly climbed into bed.
He folded his arms over his ribs and squeezed them gently, trying to hold them in place while he yawned, then closed his eyes and relaxed. Now he was really starting to hurt.
He prayed with all the sincerity he had in him that he hadn’t lost his handcomp until after he escaped from the Albion. He really, really, didn’t want to have to go back aboard that ship.
Chapter 35
Joint Solfleet/U.S. Aerospace Force Station Peterson
Saturday, 4 June 2191
Nick was absolutely beside himself, livid, incensed, and had been for more than a week and a half. He was... He was... He didn’t even have the words to describe how he felt anymore. As he paced back and forth from one side of his cell to the other and back again, which only took a few steps in each direction, glaring out through the transluminum front wall toward the security door at the end of the short corridor beyond, clenching jaw until it ached and grinding his teeth, he doubted that he’d ever felt so angry about anything before or ever would be again. He’d been locked away in solitary confinement inside the J-SAFS-Peterson military confinement facility for twelve long days now—twelve days!—and if he hadn’t been awake and alert and able to gaze out through the prisoner transport’s rear window for the drive into the base after he was arrested he probably wouldn’t even know where he was. His cell contained a previous generation standard-issue bunk with a bottom sheet, a top sheet, one thin pillow in a plain white pillowcase, and one thin blue blanket. There was a toilet and a sink, and all the necessary personal hygiene products. Nothing bore an insignia or logo to identify the base on which the facility was located. There was also one small shelf on which an inmate’s rulebook sat, and even the book cover bore nothing to identify where he was.
He hadn’t realized that military inmates were kept in the dark like that. Enemy prisoners of war held in facilities designed for them, yes, but not their own people.
They’d forced him to change into standard-issue light gray prison fatigues and a pair of soft white slippers as soon as he arrived and had issued him two more sets of fatigues and seven sets of white underclothes and socks to wear. He didn’t know what they’d done with his clothes. Then they’d processed him into the facility—holophoto, voiceprint, fingerprints, retinal scans—and then assigned him to his cell in solitary. Since then, no one had said a word to him except to bark orders whenever they needed to come into his cell for some reason. “Stand up.” “Move over there.” “Put your hands on top of your head.” “Turn around.” “Stand against the wall.” They fed him three square meals every day, they gave him all the water to drink that he wanted, they saw to it that his dirty laundry got washed and his linens got changed, they kept his cell stocked with those necessary hygiene products, and they took him outside for thirty minutes’ yard time under guard every day, but that was it. No one ever check on him except while performing those duties. Nor had anyone read any charges off to him, advised him of his legal rights, or afforded him any opportunity to seek and secure legal counsel. The way they were treating was infuriating, not to mention completely illegal, and he’d sworn after just the second day that whenever he finally got out of there, heads were going to roll.
But all of that paled in comparison to his primary concern, which of course was Heather’s wellbeing. Even the mystery surrounding his nightmares that had been haunting him for months meant nothing next to his daughter’s safety and security. How was she? Was she all right? Was she afraid? She had seen him arrested, but did she know where he’d been taken? She was only fifteen—a child according to the law. Had the state taken her into protective custody and put her in a foster home or had she been allowed to stay in the house? If she had been allowed to stay, was there anyone staying with her? Was there someone there taking care of her or had she been left to her own devices?
If anything bad happened to her while he was locked up...
Maybe they’d contacted Jason and flown him out to stay with her. Yeah, hopefully they’d done that. That would have been the best option, certainly for her. No one would look out for her welfare like her own uncle would.
The small indicator light in the panel beside the door at the end of the corridor flickered from red to green. That was curious. He looked up at the clock above the door. 1300 hours. He’d already had his lunch and he wasn’t due for yard time for another two hours. No one ever came in at 1300, so what was going on. The door slid aside into the wall and one of the guards stepped inside the corridor. Why now, after twelve days of near around-the-clock solitude, was one of the guards coming to see him? Where they finally going to...
Mirriazu! “Madam President!” he bellowed much louder than he’d intended to, stepping up to his cell’s front wall as the president and the guard escorting her approached his cell door. A gut response to seeing her so unexpectedly, he realized right away... and pointless. She wouldn’t hear a single word he said, or shouted, until the guard either switched on the intercom or opened the door.
Finally! Something was going to be done to set this mess straight!
He knew the routine. He didn’t need to be told, and for once he was happy to oblige. He stepped back away from the door, turned his back on it, and then raised his hands and laid them one on top of the other on the top of his head. But then, instead of hearing his cell door unlock, he heard the intercom come on.
“No need for that this time, Mister Hansen,�
� the guard told him. His tone was civil for a change, as though he were speaking to someone not locked up in his facility.
He dropped his hands to his sides and faced around to find Mirriazu standing outside his cell staring at him while the guard stepped away and posted himself in the corner by the corridor door, which had closed again. He stepped up to the wall again to stand before her and briefly looked her over. She looked just as she had in Geneva two and a half weeks ago—thin as ever but healthy, as well rested as could be expected... and probably still angry with him, though he couldn’t tell for sure. She’d recently had her hair done and he thought it looked a little grayer than it had, but that might just have been an effect of the bright lights in ceiling right above her. Rather than one of those colorful African sarongs she often liked to wear, she’d worn modern business attire in blue and gray, though any displeasure she might have felt at having had to do so didn’t show on her face. As a matter of fact... Angry? Disappointed? Glad to see him locked up? He couldn’t tell. Her expression was so neutral and inexpressive that he couldn’t read it at all. Was she there to get him out or to bid him good riddance? He simply couldn’t tell.
“Thank you for coming all this way to see me, Madam President,” he finally said, hoping for the former, when it became quite apparent to him that she had no intention of speaking first. He didn’t know what else to say.
“I didn’t come for you,” she replied evenly. “I came for Heather.”
“Have you seen her? How is she?” he asked urgently. “Is she all right?”
“She’s fine,” she answered. “She’s been at home this whole time.”
Nick sighed with relief. “Thank God. Is her uncle with her?”
“No, he’s not. The local Solfleet detachment commander chose not to notify your family of your arrest right away. Seems she was concerned for your reputation for some reason. She assigned a family counselor to play mother to her the day you were arrested—a lady lieutenant—and some personnel security specialists from the O-S-S to watch the house. They’ve been with her around the clock ever since.”
