The Pride of the Damned (Cochrane's Company Book 3)

by Peter Grant

  The guards waited until everyone had entered the pod, then withdrew. Agim watched them, feeling curiously detached. He noted that the inner door of the airlock was unusually thick and strong, more like a prison door. It closed with a solid thump. Almost immediately, he felt the tremble of a drive unit beneath his feet, and a surging motion that made him sway on his feet. The ship had begun to move… but where was it going?

  Agim realized that, even though no-one knew what was going on, it would be best to establish some sort of order. He squeezed his wife’s hand, indicating that she should remain seated, then stood and walked to the front of the gathering, beneath the display screen. He turned to face his people, then called loudly for attention and waited until the hubbub of confused, dismayed talking had died down.

  “Brothers and sisters, I have no idea why we are here, or what is happening. To begin with, let us see whether anyone is missing. Ward leaders, gather here in front. One at a time, each of you will summon your people, count them, and report any who are absent. When you have done so, take your ward to that end of the pod, and sit down. The others will do so in their turn. The rest of you, please shift up toward the other end to make room for them.”

  The process took more than four hours. Agim stood against the wall, watching, trying to radiate an authoritative, comforting presence, even though he felt anything but comfortable. This situation had ominous overtones. Why would an entire people, who had been happily settled on Patos for two decades, suddenly be uprooted by the authorities like this? What could possibly be behind it?

  It was soon evident that the sweep by the authorities had been extremely thorough. Apart from almost a thousand spacers absent on duty aboard their ships, only fifty-seven people were identified as missing by their ward leaders. They reported the names and totals verbally to Agim, but could not do so in writing, as there was nothing to write on or with. He could only tell them to remember the names for future reference. Among them were Pal Sejdiu’s family. He frowned. Pal was on Neue Helvetica, but where were his family? Had they somehow got wind of this, and escaped the roundup? And what about the Tahiris?

  Another hour passed. Relative silence fell, as most of the assembled people began to sink into apathy. Agim and the other members of the Council, and some of the ward leaders, moved among the rows of benches, trying to encourage those looking particularly worried or downcast; but since they knew no more than anyone else, they did not have much to offer.

  At last the display screen flickered, and its speaker crackled. People who noticed shook their neighbors and pointed. Within a few minutes, everyone was looking at it.

  At last the screen filled with three men, seated at a table. A microphone was centrally placed. The man in the center, heavy-set with dark hair and heavy eyebrows, pulled it toward him and spoke in Galactic Standard English.

  “Members of the Albanian Brotherhood, you have been gathered together for punishment. Your movement ends here, this very day. You have dared to steal asteroids from mining enterprises in which the Cosa Nostra, the Dragon Tong and the Nuevo Cartel have an interest. Not content with robbing us, your activities have stirred up interest and investigations from law enforcement on many planets, making our work much more difficult and dangerous. Because of you, we have lost a great deal of money and some of our best people. We have therefore passed judgment upon you all. For your crimes against us, direct and indirect, you will die. I, Giuseppe Mancuso, declare this on behalf of the Cosa Nostra.”

  There was a collective gasp from those watching. Before they could collect their thoughts, the speaker passed the microphone to the person on his right. This man was of lighter build, his skin pale, with eyes showing a slight epicanthic fold. His voice was soft, but iron was in his words. “I, Lau Jianhong, speaking for the Dragon Tong, declare on its behalf that your insolence and disrespect for our organizations has gone on too long. It is no longer tolerable. For the trouble you have caused us, and the money you have cost us, you must die.”

  He passed the microphone back to the man in the center, who slid it further down the table to the person on his left, an older man with swarthy skin and black eyes beneath graying hair. “I, Manuel Gonzalez of the Nuevo Cartel, agree with my colleagues here. On behalf of my Cartel, I sentence you all to death. You should have known better than to steal from us, and to cause us so many problems.

  “The Cosa Nostra and the Dragon Tong have agreed that the Nuevo Cartel should be entrusted with the task of dealing with you. We shall therefore make an example of you, one that will arouse fear and horror in anyone else who even thinks about defying us. In this way, even though your lives have served no useful purpose, your deaths will.”

  Numb with shock and disbelief, the audience watched as the three men rose from the table and walked off to one side, out of the field of view of the vid camera. A fourth man stepped into the picture, picked up the microphone, and turned to face the camera. His face was red, and his eyes hinted at moisture: a curious combination of mingled fury and sorrow.

  “I am Dardan Bregija, current leader of the Bregija clan. Your founder, Bashkim Bregija, turned his back on us in anger and contempt more than four decades ago. We warned him at the time that his folly would cost him dear, and those who followed him. That warning will come true this day.

  “The greatest tragedy for us is not your deaths, but that we have been forced to be the instruments of your destruction. The Nuevo Cartel ordered us to assist them. They said that since we had failed to do what we should have done at the time of the breakaway, we would have to do it now, on pain of being exterminated ourselves if we did not. The Bregija clan today numbers tens of thousands, scattered across at least a dozen worlds. We could not let the actions of a few thousand rebellious dissidents imperil the lives of many times their number. Your actions – no, your very existence has caused this threat to us. Therefore, we shall end it, so that we may continue to exist.

  “The Nuevo Cartel coordinated your arrest with the authorities on Patos by threatening them with sanctions and reprisals if they did not assist. You may recall hearing that the Minister of Health died last week, along with his family, when they were burned to death in a vehicle accident. That is not true. Patos’ Cabinet was on a weekend strategy planning retreat at the Prime Minister’s lodge in the mountains. The Nuevo Cartel invaded it, held them all as prisoners, and forced them to watch as the Minister and his family were chosen by lot, then tortured to death, to provide an object lesson in what would happen to the other Ministers if they did not cooperate. Their bodies were then burned in their vehicle, to hide the evidence of how they died.

  “Furthermore, the Ministers were warned that failure to cooperate would see piracy take root in this system overnight. It would grow until space travel to and from Patos was too dangerous to insure, and its orbital economy was in ruins. In the face of such threats, they surrendered. Patos is a minor planet, without influence or riches to obtain help against such a threat. They had no choice, just as we have no choice.

  “Your vessels have already been dealt with, or soon will be. Your base in a deserted star system has by now been invaded and destroyed. Your spacers are dead. Now it is your turn. This ship is ours, commandeered by the Nuevo Cartel for this mission. They have forced us to be your executioners, and even dictated the way in which you will die.

  “We are now drawing near to Patos’ sun. In a few moments, your personnel pod will be ejected. It holds enough air to last you for the rest of your lives. We shall turn away, leaving your pod to continue toward the sun. It will begin to burn up in its heat within five to six hours.” He paused, then sighed. “I am more sorry than I have words to say that it has come to this, but your madness and folly, and the Big Three’s anger, are to blame – not us.

  “May God have mercy on your souls… and on ours, for what we are forced to do.”

  Dardan Bregija laid down the microphone, turned, and walked out of camera shot. A moment later, the display screen went dark.

 
; The members of the Brotherhood stood mute, staring at each other, aghast. Some turned to their partners and buried themselves in each other’s arms. Sobs broke out here and there around the room. Parents gathered their children to themselves, hugging them wordlessly.

  Agim stood motionless. So it has come to this, in the end, he thought, a bitter, cold fury rising in his soul. The Patriarch warned us that the Bregijas were small-minded, ignorant, unworthy. They have just proved him correct! They could have died gloriously, refusing to be cowed! They could have joined us, making both groups immeasurably stronger! With our own planet, we might even have withstood the Big Three together, until we could grow strong enough to demand that they accept us as equals! But no… they would not do that. They chose the coward’s way. Well, we do not! We shall not die as cowards! We shall stand proud to the last, as the Patriarch did!

  He squared his shoulders, lifted his head proudly, and walked to where his wife stood. Taking her hand, he led her to the front of the pod once more, turning to face his people with her at his side. Taking a deep breath, he began to sing the Himni i Flamurit, the Hymn of the Flag, the ancient anthem of the Albanian people. The Patriarch had loved it. It would now be the funeral song of his followers – and their shout of defiance in the face of death.

  Slowly, hesitantly, a few voices began to join with his.

  Around our flag we stand united,

  With one wish and one goal,

  A sacred oath we swear upon it,

  A covenant of loyalty for our salvation.

  Agim broke off for a moment. “Sing, brothers and sisters! Sing it with me!” More people straightened their backs, took deep breaths, and joined in the second verse.

  Only he abstains from war

  Who is born a traitor,

  He who is truly a man is not frightened,

  But dies as a martyr for the cause.

  By now almost half the pod was singing.

  With weapons brandished in our hands

  We will defend our fatherland,

  Our sacred rights we shall not share,

  The enemy has no place here.

  By the time they reached the sixth and final verse, the volume had become deafening. Almost everyone was singing at the tops of their lungs.

  The man’s name is remembered and honored

  who sacrifices himself for the fatherland.

  Forever he will be remembered

  Above earth and upon it as a saint!

  Agim raised his voice in a mighty shout as the anthem ended. “Again, brothers and sisters! Sing it again, to the honor and glory of our Patriarch!”

  In the conference room to one side of the freighter’s bridge, Dardan Bregija and the representatives of the Big Three watched and listened through hidden cameras and microphones as the Albanian Brotherhood bellowed its collective defiance.

  The Nuevo Cartel man asked, “What are they singing? I do not speak Albanian.”

  Dardan replied, “It is an ancient song of our people, of dedication to our fatherland’s flag.”

  “As good a final song as any, I suppose. Are you recording what goes on in there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. We will need a copy, to get the names of the missing. Our people will hunt them down, sooner or later, wherever they are, and make sure they do not escape their fate. Destroy all other copies. We shall let it be known that the Brotherhood died badly, begging and screaming for mercy. Make sure you and the crew of this ship never contradict that, on pain of sharing their punishment.”

  Dardan gritted his teeth. He wanted to scream his own defiance at this… this monster… join the Brotherhood, no matter how misguided they were, in rejecting him… but he knew what that would mean for his people. He forced himself to respond with only a muttered, tortured “Y-yes, sir.”

  As the captives began the anthem again, he turned on his heel and walked through the open door to the bridge, where the ship’s captain and a few of his officers and spacers were listening in unwilling, almost horrified fascination.

  “All is ready?” he asked the spacer skipper.

  “All is ready, sir.” The man hesitated. “They… they are brave people, sir. They stand proud in the face of death.”

  “Yes, they are brave, and proud, too. Sadly, it is the pride of the damned. How is the pod released?”

  The captain pointed to a button on his command console, covered by a transparent flip-up cap. “We have programmed it to that button, sir. When it is pressed, everything will happen automatically. Our present trajectory will take the pod into the sun as we turn away.”

  Dardan braced himself. “They are rebels, but many share our heritage and our blood. If the spirits of our ancestors curse us for killing them – as well they may! – then I pray their curse will fall on me alone, and spare our clan. God have mercy upon my soul.”

  He reached out, flipped up the safety cover over the button, hesitated a moment, then pressed it. They all heard and felt the thump! through the hull as the latches securing the pod to the hold floor were released, and the hold doors opened. Cargo-handling tractor and pressor beams shoved the pod out into space. They watched, silent, through the viewscreens as it came into view, drifting off to starboard, already beginning to tumble slowly in the airless void.

  Dardan crossed to the viewscreen and stood with his nose pressed against it, tears filling his eyes, heart pounding, feeling sick to his stomach as he watched the pod drawing further away. He knew it would have lost its artificial gravity field as it left the ship. Those inside would now be floating in free-fall… and few of them were spacers, familiar with such conditions. Their vestibular systems would now be destabilized, their sense of balance disoriented. Vertigo would already be setting in, and nausea as their stomachs revolted.

  Within minutes, the first of them would begin spewing uncontrollably. Their vomit would float as well, splashing everyone nearby, growing worse by the minute as more and more people were affected. The portable toilets, designed for operation only in gravity, would remain lashed to the bulkhead; but the contents of their waste tanks, now also weightless, would drift up and out of their doors and vents, adding their stench and filth to the noisome atmosphere.

  Those inside the pod would have to endure all that for hours, in rising temperatures as the pod drew nearer to the sun. No matter how great their courage, in the end, instinctively, hopelessly, at least some – the younger children first, and then adults, too – would begin to struggle uncontrollably, screaming, threshing about in a desperate attempt to find some, any, relief. The torment would continue and get worse, until… until all torment was burned away forever.

  Dardan bowed his head and wept, silently, hopelessly. With an inner clarity and absolute certainty he had never felt before, he knew he had surely damned himself by agreeing to be complicit in this foulness. It would have been better to shoot himself first… but such defiance would have condemned his entire clan to death as well. He was trapped. He had no choice but to bear and endure this evil for his people. It was nothing less than his duty, as cold as ice, as hard as steel, as heavy as a mountain… and it crushed his spirit beneath its burden.

  As he wept, the captain made a wordless sign to the helmsman, then reached for his control panel. The hold doors slid smoothly shut, and the ship turned away.

  29

  Bianca

  CONSTANTA

  Cochrane studied the figures. Slowly, he began to nod. “You did really well, both on the price of the planet, and getting lower prices for the infrastructure we’ll need.”

  Caitlin smiled. “Thank you, sir. It was just as you thought. The company had gotten their hopes up really high that the Brotherhood would buy Ostrovy, but then the sale fell through and Pal Sejdiu vanished. They were almost in despair, because they’re a new outfit, and under-capitalized. They’d spent a lot of money on the planetary surveys, funded by debt, and it’s crippling them. They badly needed an injection of capital, to clear the debt and pay for a couple of
new ships and all the robotic exploration gear they use. When I turned up, with money in the bank, they could hardly believe their luck. I was able to put the screws on them.”

  “You certainly were! Forty-eight billion is a steal for a planet like that. The infrastructure prices are also less than I expected.”

  “Yes, sir. I think we can have up to a thousand people living on the surface, with everything they need, in less than three years, for about three billion francs. To build a town of five to ten thousand, which should be big enough for all our people and their families at Hawkwood’s present size, would be twice that cost. That’s bringing in everything from off-planet, of course, and providing flat pack housing. Anyone wanting something fancier will have to build it themselves.”

  Cochrane grinned at her. “Using parts and materials bought from us, or at the very least shipped in from other planets aboard our vessels. I’ll never charge our people more than cost plus ten per cent, and I’ll publish the numbers to prove it. Even so, that’ll grow into another useful income stream in due course.”

  “Of course! I hadn’t thought about that, but most corporate planets do the same.”

  “Yes. I’m particularly pleased that, even with all we need to buy, you’ve saved four billion out of what the Brotherhood sent to Neue Helvetica. I’ll use that right away to help replace our losses.”

  Her face fell. “Yes, sir. How have our spacers taken them?”