The Inner Belt. That made Armitage pause. Maybe Trahern wasn’t the worst. If he was right, and he was pretty sure he was, that it was her, then she would be up there with the Grey. Base Planet was about as far as one could get from the heart of the Inner Belt. So far away and so inconsequential in the grand scheme of things that the chance that someone familiar with the Courts would appear on Base was infinitesimal. That was one of the reasons he was here. Hers also, probably. She was supposed to be dead but he recognised the small frame and delicate features of the Celerion line. Not known for bastards, that lot, and all the rest accounted for, it could only be her. She was clever enough if all the reports were true. The Little Witch, they had called her, for good reason.
The thought came to Armitage that it might be time to pack up and leave. Take his bottles and go. The two of them here, now. Maybe leave the bottles and go.
CHAPTER 2: TWO MONTHS LATER
PASSAGE GUARD FORTRESS, BASE PLANET
Celene was uneasy just looking at it, even with half the distance of the plain separating her from the grim construct. She was not alone. Although the room was crowded, conversation was muted and most eyes stayed away from large windows. She did not need her training to explain the reaction. Everyone in the Guard hated the Box. Everyone went through the Box, all personnel, all callings.
It was the largest of the few buildings on the plain within the walls of Base. A black cube three hundred metres high. One door at ground level on the north face. Perforations and slots in all walls, most not visible from a distance, one large opening near the top centre of the west wall. Built by the Mad Command during the War of the Crosses, it had stood on the plain of Base for thousands of years.
The Box was a testing chamber, unique in concept and in operation. Rumour was that AI had an input in its construction. Certainly the design was complex, seemingly beyond human capabilities. The myriad perforations created patterns of light and shadow inside that could affect the mind, from mere disorientation to full blown hallucination. The abundance of perforations and the resultant complexity of patterns increased with elevation making the higher levels inside correspondingly more difficult to essay.
Reputedly, the Mad Command had used the Box more for culling than for evaluation. Prolonged tests brought out the fanaticism that plagued those times. Susceptible subjects, those drawn to the outlawed extremist causes, did not survive the Box, or so it was believed.
In current use, tests were of limited duration and the problematic high levels were rarely attained. Nevertheless, the Box was still dangerous. The lower levels were not difficult so a height was quickly reached that could make a fall fatal.
No food was provided but water was available from a single fountain at ground level next to the door. Thirst featured heavily in the test and kept the period short, rarely more than a day. The object of the exercise, so to speak, was quite simple; to move a perforated five metre steel I beam up through the framework that filled the inside of the box to as high a position as possible. Execution of the exercise, however, was another matter. The regularity of the framework decreased with height, the succeeding levels becoming more complex until even the distinction of levels was lost. Spacing and angles changed, some portions in discernable patterns, others not.
Most subjects slid the beam along the girders, lifting only at intersections, angling up where geometry allowed. This created a slow curving ascent. Some of the strongest tried to carry the beam, over a shoulder or clutched to the chest, and climb more vertically. If the beam fell, the subject started again, or not, as they chose. The subjects picked their own route, were free to leave the beam and move ahead or back to test routes, even to climb down for water or to sleep on the floor. Eventually thirst, the weight of the beam, and backtracking from dead ends wore them down. The subject decided when to stop. Exiting the building completed the task. The test could be taken as many times as the subject wished. Few tried a second time. Of those that entered more than twice, only one in a hundred survived.
Sensors built into the framework recorded the details of the test. Evaluation teams made up of med and psych personnel reviewed results and posted a short summary in the subject’s file. A row of numbers were also included, the ‘stats’; height achieved, duration, number of drops, number of lifts, rate of ascent, fitness before, fitness after, and a set of ratios. These were used by Command when making up teams and, eventually, full missions. All leaders down the chain of command knew the ‘Box stats’ of the people under them.
The sensor data was also run through a program considered to be as old as the Box itself. This produced a colour trace of the route taken and another series of statistics. Command only used a few of these; ratings for spatial awareness, planning and risk. The remainder were not understood anymore, their meaning lost in time.
It was rare for tests to be viewed in real time. Data sent to the Wall was condensed to be evaluated by psych/med during normal duty shifts. This time was different. Not only was the test ‘live’ but the eval room was nearly full. Trahern was in the Box. He had been in for two and a half days, and he was high, very high. But he had stopped moving.
Perhaps this is best, thought Celene. Death by misadventure, not uncommon in the Guard, blameless after a fashion. A simple solution to a complex problem. When Trahern had walked through the gates two months ago after his nine year absence he had had not just brought wonder and mystery with him. Fear had entered as well. Fear of what he had been and fear of what he might have become. Most of Bases’ current personnel, herself included, had arrived after the Ship Wars. All they knew of Trahern were stories; a survivor from the Games who had been allowed to join the Guard; a killer, certainly, as all people sentenced to Base were, but on a different scale. Celene suspected that of current personnel only the Armourer and she had similar numbers. Not as direct though, not one-to-one as it would have been for Trahern.
Celene had viewed tapes from the Games in her youth. They were illegal in the Inner Belt but available in select circles jaded by lesser entertainments. Billed as contests of life and death on wild planets, they were in reality records of inventive ways to force people to kill one another, the depravity occasionally exhibited by the subjects routinely exceeded by that of the controllers. Trahern would have had to kill many times in many different ways to survive. Celene was surprised that the Guard had accepted him. Trust was important here. The Guard was too small to function without it.
And now, on top of his brutal past, there was the possibility that the Ships, the mysterious aliens, had altered Trahern further. The challenges his case presented had initially intrigued her but her utter lack of progress had since blunted her enthusiasm. She could not read him or rile him. All her approaches had been met with the same stiff posture and terse politeness. He claimed no memory of events from the last battle to his recovery in the Arm, a time period of four years or more. Med had not found a physical cause for this lapse. The injury to his head had come before, not after, and there was no problem with his faculties at present. Drugs had no effect. It set the problem firmly in Celene’s lap. Her working premise was not favourable. She believed that the memories were locked in his sub-conscious. Whether they were blocked by an act of his will or by the agency of unknown others the result was the same. Unblocking them would place his sanity at risk. Maybe better if the Box settled it today.
The duty psych turned from the monitors to survey the room in a casual movement completed with a stretch of his shoulders and an apparent return of attention to the screens. From the side of the room, perched on a chair back, Celene approved. This rare gathering of command and service heads outside of the confines of a formal meeting offered more insight to the state of the Guard than a month of reviews.
Colda had entered only a short time ago yet now occupied the centre of the large group standing in the back of the room close to the monitors. Cadre leaders and service heads, a few sub-commanders, all of them seemed to welcome the PlanCon Commander. Only the big Am
azon, Rhone, had moved out of the gathering, bumping the beefy aide next to Colda on her way. Colda rarely travelled without at least two aides since his forced exclusion from Trahern’s debriefing. Curiously, the taller of the two had balked at the entrance to the room, hurriedly bending to murmur in Colda’s ear before leaving.
Whatever excuse had been given, it did not appear to have been appreciated. Colda had carried a scowl across to the gathered commanders. Placated by their camaraderie his mood appeared to lift yet it was not long before his attention strayed and his lips turned down again. Like a sulky child, thought Celene. Now he was fidgeting. He obviously wanted to approach the Inner Belt representative standing in the centre of the room. Celene couldn’t work out what was holding him back. Certainly not propriety. A scion of one of the Houses, Colda would assume equality, maybe even superiority, to the Scholar.
An Inner Belt scholar, drawn all the way across the galaxies by a rumour from a distant outpost. The scholar would be focused on his task and no threat to her but his arrival showed how quickly the Inner Belt could react and how good their intelligence network was. Her assumed identity was strong, well-documented here on Base and in the sectors she was purported to have come from. It would stand inspection but even the shadow of a doubt could draw the wrong attention. I must be more careful in future, she warned herself. In her preoccupation with Trahern, she had neglected her normal pattern of checks. The first she had known of the scholar was his appearance in this room.
Celene had been here all morning, one of the earliest attendees. Johnson of Supply was the only senior there before her. ‘We think of him as one of our own,’ he had explained. A strange adoption for that quiet service, she thought. But with nothing left of the Grey Cadre, Supply would have been responsible for outfitting and accommodating Trahern. Enough for them to form a bond, she decided. Supply had taken on the character of their commander, a development she had observed with many of the units on Base. Celene had high regard for Johnson, a quiet, kind person, almost too much so for the Guard in her opinion. Luckily, no one coveted Supply.
Johnson now sat with Quartermaine, the commander of Base, talking softly, calming him, she hoped. Quartermaine’s entrance had been dramatic. No greetings or introductions, he had escorted the Scholar to the centre of the room, positioned him with a curt nod and then advanced to the window and pulled a row of seats away from the wall. Swinging the row around, he sat with his back to the room, pointedly ignoring the informal assembly. Be careful, old man, Celene warned him in her mind. Some of those behind you take a turned back as an opportunity, not an insult.
This was not the time for a confrontation, not if position reflected affiliation. Almost every unit in the Guard was represented in the room, the marines the only obvious exception. Oulte of the Far Rangers sat on the other side of Quartermaine from Johnson. The Armourer against the window and Aesca of Med standing behind the row of chairs made up the few that were close to Quartermaine. Most of the other personnel were back with Colda. She and Nata, Base’s unarmed combat instructor and a Master of the One Path, occupied opposite walls, with the Amazon and the Scholar, if you could count him, in between.
Not a good sign for Quartermaine but then perhaps she wasn’t being fair. Aesca was positively radiating anger. That would keep many of the men at bay. Aesca’s temper was legendary. A measure of her care, Celene believed, that also served as a means of deterring the attentions of men. The doctor was as beautiful as she was volatile, although not prone to recognise either of these attributes.
Celene read the expressions on the faces she could see, concern on some, anticipation on others, nothing on Nata’s of course. He had his bland face on, probably working out killing strikes on all the people in the room, a continual exercise for him, second nature. She moved higher on her perch and saw him adjust his body slightly. She shivered. Sometimes she knew too much.
*
Aesca stood behind the row of seats, only half aware of the conversation of the men seated in front of her. How could they have allowed this? She was head of Med. She should have been consulted.
‘Old Tracka-dan’s tomatoes are especially fine this time of year. We must send some up for your rooftop picnics,’ said Johnson.
Trahern will die, thought Aesca. All the way back from the deep and we do this to him. Her anger built.
Johnson leaned forward to look past Quartermaine to Oulte. ‘Tracka-dan is one of yours Oulte. I wish all of the old cadremen could farm like him.’
‘His health is not so good, we have to check on him,’ said Oulte. ‘We asked for him to take a partner, but he wouldn’t have it. Best we could do was settling Nowra to the west of him. Nowra wants to grow trees, what do you think, on the plain. He would not know a tree from a mushroom that one, but now he wants to grow them.’
Aesca leaned down to tap Oulte on the shoulder. Quartermaine flinched away from her movement. Ignoring him, she addressed the fair-haired man. ‘Commander Oulte, you have to decide whether to leave that old man out there or bring him in to Med long term. He is already seeing things, strange lights and black spectres wandering the plain. It may be the onset of senility. With his physical condition it could create problems.’
Oulte sighed, ‘The choice is not mine. He has earned his block of dirt and the right to die on it.’
Aesca straightened with a humph. Why do they call these people commanders? None of them can make a decision. She glared at the back of Quartermaine’s head. Especially this one. So what if he had got tricked into it, he could stop it, damn rules and fools both. She didn’t heal people just so they could kill them.
Trahern had only been admitted to Med for tests but she considered him a patient. Portions of his bones were as light as foam. Barely functional and they put him in this damn Box. And that is only his body, stars know what his mind is like. For all of Briodi’s care and Celene’s confrontation, the psychs had achieved nothing. She could see that. Without Mike and Gati around him, he would be lost. And now he is up there on his own. She knew that the big marine and the new Grey would not be far away, maybe down near the exit at the foot of the Wall, maybe out on the plain itself. But no one could help you once you were in the Box. She tapped her foot. Three men brought together by a fight in a tavern. She had been with the Guard long enough to see how such bonds formed. Shared danger, threat to life … and there had been that. Michael’s injuries were evidence. Her anger eased as she thought about him. His big bones had made him easy to work on, with his manner, a pleasure. ‘Mad Mike’ his fellow marines called him, in recognition of his quiet gentle nature, in that perverse way of theirs with nicknames. Broad shouldered, slim hipped and long of leg, he had towered over her when she finally returned him to his feet, a fine figure of a man.
Gati’s injuries had not been as severe but she had kept him in as long as Michael. A civilian, she had not known his circumstances. The spaceport and its small town were all there were on the planet besides the Base. An injured man, unable to perform heavy work, would not have fared well. But that problem had been solved when Quartermaine had asked him to join the Grey Cadre. The Guard would look after him now.
Like it is looking after Trahern. He is one of ours, no matter what has happened to him. Her anger returned so sharply that she cocked her head to the side and lifted an arm to strike. She caught the motion and pulled her hand in, darting a glance over her shoulder to see if anyone else had noticed. There was a half smile on Celene’s face that told her she had seen. But her humour was not at Aesca’s expense. It was directed at Nata. He had come off the wall and up onto his toes. So he should, thought Aesca. They had recent history. A week after the fight in the tavern she had caught him at Michael’s bedside lifting the arm she had so carefully put back together. He’d ignored her command to stop and actually stretched the arm toward his shoulder, gauging the length against his own! And it had been his bully boys that had done the damage in the first place. She’d crossed the room and slapped a tranque against his back wit
hout thinking. He’d occupied a bed in Med himself for the rest of that day.
Aesca shook her head to clear the memory. It wasn’t helping her calm down. The men in front of her continued with their nonsense.
‘I would rather die in a garden than at my desk, especially a garden like Tracka-dan’s,’ said Johnson.
‘A glorious death, flaming out in battle, that’s what I thought when I was younger,’ said Oulte. ‘Now maybe in my sleep, I think.’
‘What trees will Nowra plant and will he keep them or cut them?’ asked Johnson. ‘A forest would be nice. I wouldn’t mind dying in a forest.’
‘Trees on the plain and people dying in them, we would be back like the savages,’ laughed Oulte.
*
No need to go back, we are as savage as we ever were, thought Quartermaine. They were talking about death because it was out there in front of them, in that damn black box. Preferred in a garden or in a bed, anywhere but in that Box. That was what had got him through at his testing. The determination not to die in the Box. At the end that was all he had left. He hadn’t even tried to drink from the fountain, just crawled out the door. What Trahern may be thinking now he couldn’t guess. No one had been in so long or gone so high, not in existing records anyway.
Quartermaine was angry. He had allowed himself to be out-manoeuvred and it was going to cost Trahern his life.
The Return of the Grey Page 3
