Atlantia Series 2: Retaliator

by Dean Crawford

  The general scowled but he did not reply. The captain looked down at Mikhain once more.

  ‘Follow her,’ he repeated. ‘Keep our distance but track her home. Maybe, this time, we can prove to the Veng’en that an alliance between our races is the only way we can even begin to think about defeating the Word. We must achieve unity with other species against it, and together perhaps we will be strong enough to prevail.’

  Mikhain, a little reluctance remaining in his tones, began sending the tracking data to the helmsman.

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘What if the Veng’en don’t destroy us but still refuse to help?’ Andaim asked.

  The captain took a deep breath as he stood with his hands behind his back and looked out to the dense starfields awaiting them.

  ‘Then we must find other races who will,’ he replied. ‘And we must find them before the Word has a chance to spread further. We will become the harbinger of doom but also the last flame of hope. This is our mission, to make ourselves strong enough to take the battle home.’ He looked down at his bridge crew. ‘Dismissed.’

  ***

  XLV

  The lower keel–hull of the Atlantia was a place where the crew rarely ventured. Although pressurised and provided with an atmosphere for the rare occasions when engineers were required to travel down to inspect the ship’s immense hull, the long lonely passages were only dimly lit and provided little more than a home for the descendents of the scavenging animals that had somehow made it aboard when the Atlantia’s keel was laid down decades before.

  The three men stepped off the bottom of the access ladder and looked down into the endless passage that ran the length of the lower hull, the widely spaced illumination panels in the ceiling vanishing into the distance.

  The decks here were not magnetized unless power was specifically re–routed to the charging cables laid below the decks themselves. The men’s boots gently touched the deck and they pushed off, floating through the gloomy passage.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ muttered one of them, a small and wiry man with half of his teeth missing.

  ‘Shut up,’ snapped another, bulkier man with a thickly forested jaw and chunky arms. ‘This will be worth it.’

  Most of the Atlantia’s civilians were the former prison support workers, their families and a scattering of travellers who had been fortunate enough to be aboard the prison ship when the apocalypse struck the homeworlds. Some were skilled workers: engineers, physicists and other scientists, doctors and nurses employed either by the Colonial Fleet or the prison service. Most others were labourers and steel–workers, tradesmen sub–contracted to the Colonial Fleet Service and stationed far from home. Now, confined deep in the sanctuary with no control over their future, many of the civilians were restless and even bored despite the sacntuary’s idyllic surroundings.

  A dull crack echoed down the corridors and the wiry man stiffened. ‘What was that?’

  All ships made sound even when they were drifting through the immense expanses of interstellar space. The huge size of the craft, temperature differences, combined with the subtle shifts and stresses of distant stars exerting their gravitational pull or micrometeorite impacts and the thrust of the enormous engines all combined to produce a rhythmic drumming that some spacemariners referred to as the ship’s heartbeat. Way down here, they could hear the creak and throb of the ship’s internal structure flexing, bending, expanding and contracting, the echoes rolling back and forth down the lonely passage around them as though distant warriors fought with steel swords, the blades clashing with each blow.

  The three men let their momentum carry them for several minutes before, far ahead, they glimpsed a small light flash three times like a beacon. There was a long pause and then it flashed twice more. The bearded man retrieved from his jacket a small flashlight, and he responded with a twin double–flash of his own as he floated toward the source of the light.

  A giant figure emerged from the shadows where it had crouched, silhouetted against the feeble lights in the distance. The three men reached out to slow themselves as they grasped the edge of a bulkhead, and one of them produced a portable lamp that illuminated their faces with a ghoulish glow.

  ‘‘Bout time,’ the giant figure uttered.

  The bearded man let his boots touch the deck, keen to have something to push against should the meeting turn sour.

  ‘Ain’t easy to slip away unnoticed,’ he replied. ‘You got what we need?’

  ‘I got it.’ The giant figure handed the bearded man a small, sealed plastic bag.

  The drug Devlamine was a crystal, a volatile mixture of chemicals that had been the staple of violent street gangs before the apocalypse. The same drug that the Legion had first used as a carrier to infect mankind, in its normal form it caused a sense of euphoria that was so powerful it literally caused users to lose hours or even days of their lives while comatose in a blissful Utopian dreamworld, far from the horrors of the world around them. Grieving relatives saw lost ones again, terminally ill patients ended their lives in serene delight, and reckless youths seeking the next illegal high sent themselves into an oblivion of ecstacy, sometimes never to return.

  It was said, by some, that it was the Legion’s ability to manipulate the drug in which it had hidden that caused the infection to be so successful: the Legion did not initially directly control the host, the drug did, delivered precisely when and where it was needed to ensure compliance and withdrawn when that obedience was challenged.

  ‘You done good,’ the bearded man said. ‘Who’s in on it?’

  ‘It matter?’

  ‘It matters to me.’

  ‘You wanted your supply, you got it. Where’s my piece?’

  The bearded man handed over a compact plasma pistol and two thirty–round magazines.

  No unauthorised weapons were permitted aboard the Atlantia. Her former role as a prison ship forbade the carrying of weapons in the hands of civilians or convicts for obvious reasons, and now the armoury was reserved for the ship’s military staff only.

  The giant figure grinned and in the pale light of the lamp his teeth seemed brilliantly white.

  ‘Now you got somethin’ to ease pain, and I got somethin’ to cause it,’ he murmured.

  The bearded man stepped forward.

  ‘We want this ship to be taken somewhere as far away from the Word as it can be. We don’t want no part of this fight, you understand?’

  The third civilian, a feeble–looking bespectacled man, nodded in agreement. ‘We got kids, families. Captain just damned near got us all blown to hell and we’re done with it. You gonna take the ship back or not?’

  The giant figure loomed forward, and upon his face streams of bioluminescent tattoos rippled and flared. Qayin hefted the gun in his hand for a moment, and then his bright smile reflected the light of the lamp between them once again.

  ‘It ain’t gonna happen overnight,’ he replied, ‘but believe me, my men will follow me anywhere and they’ve got the access to weapons and the bridge that you need. They’ll take the damned ship all right, just as long as you keep producing this wonderful stuff for me in the sanctuary. I only got a small supply source: it’s down to you to make it grow, understood?’

  ‘It ain’t gonna be easy,’ replied the bearded man. ‘Keeping the factory out of sight when the whole damned crew are stood down and come flocking in.’

  ‘The more people get hold of this stuff, the more quiet they’ll be about it,’ Qayin growled. ‘You keep your end of the bargain and I’ll keep mine.’

  ‘How do we know that? You could turn traitor on us just like you did those other prisoners when you…’

  The blade flickered silently in the light as Qayin rammed it up against the bearded man’s throat and pinned him against the bulkhead, his boots inches off the deck.

  ‘You do what you do and I’ll do what I do,’ Qayin snarled. ‘That’s our agreement. It don’t give you the right to back–chat me, and if you do it again I’ll
gut you without blinkin’, you sold?’

  The man nodded, his eyes swimming with panic.

  Qayin grinned, his bioluminescent tattoos glowing like rivers of molten metal against black rocks as he backed away from the man and the blade retracted into his sleeve as if by magic.

  ‘Same time next week, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Don’t be late. I wouldn’t want to have to terminate our agreement, or any of you.’

  With that, Qayin turned and drifted like a giant black ghost away from the men.

  ‘I told you,’ snapped the wiry man in a harsh whisper. ‘This was a bad idea. That guy’s a lunatic – he’ll kill us if we cross him.’

  ‘Yes he will,’ came the reply. ‘But he’s also a Marine and one tip–off from us will see him marooned on the nearest planet. We got mutually assured destruction, right?’

  Neither of his companions replied.

  *

  Qaiyn reached the end of the keel–hull and slowed as he saw a figure awaiting him near the pressure hatch exit. The low lighting concealed their presence sufficiently that the civilians behind him would not be able to identify the stranger, and Qayin was careful to keep his bulky frame between them.

  Qayin slowed and stared down at the new arrival for a long moment.

  ‘You sure about this?’

  The figure nodded once. Curt, quiet, but no doubts.

  Qayin offered up a small pack of Devlamine but kept the pistol concealed beneath his jacket. His voice rumbled deeply as he spoke, his hand still gripping the Devlamine.

  ‘You got my back, right?’

  The figure looked up at him and in the faint light Qayin saw a pair of clear green eyes, as wide as though he could see directly into her soul.

  ‘Just so long as you’ve got mine,’ she replied.

  Qayin released the package containing the drugs, and Evelyn turned quietly away and vanished into the ship’s shadows once more.

  *

  ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

  General Bra’hiv stood in the Executive Officer’s cabin, not much bigger than the prison cell–sized crew quarters that were squeezed into every spare section of the ship.

  Mikhain’s quarters were as sparse as that of any military officer, but where Mikhain’s differed from most was the vast quantity of images of his family adorning the walls. Bra’hiv was taken aback by the fact that barely any of the dull grey walls were visible for the array of images depicting children, adults, what were probably grandparents and friends and family pets. The whole room was like a shrine.

  Mikhain, sitting behind a small desk, noted the general’s glance.

  ‘My family,’ he said. ‘As they were, before…’

  Bra’hiv stiffened. ‘My condolences, sir.’

  Mikhain waved him off with a gentle smile. ‘We have all lost a great deal, general.’

  ‘Some more than others,’ Bra’hiv replied.

  The general’s own family had been much smaller and his wife had passed away of an illness two years before the holocaust had struck. Bra’hiv’s grief at the time had been replaced with a sense of immense relief that she had not been witness to what had happened to their two children, both of whom had been on Ethera when the Legion had struck and the Word had taken control of humanity.

  Bra’hiv had been away on duty aboard the Atlantia, as much to get away from memories of his wife as anything else. Now, he had only memories of his children too.

  Mikhain pulled out a bottle of dark red liquor and two tumblers.

  ‘I’m on duty,’ Bra’hiv cautioned the XO.

  ‘So am I,’ Mikhain said, ‘but what I need to say will go down a lot easier on the back of a shot like this.’

  Mikhain handed Bra’hiv a glass, a slim measure swilling enticingly in the bottom of it as the general looked at the XO.

  ‘What’s this about?’

  Mikhain downed his glass and exhaled the fumes as he looked at the general.

  ‘I’m concerned about the captain’s plan of action.’

  Bra’hiv suddenly felt a little cold in the room. He held on to the glass as though it were an anchor to safety as he considered his reply.

  ‘Have you voiced your concern to the captain himself?’

  ‘Several times,’ Mikhain replied. ‘He seems undisposed to listen to me. However, considering the fact that we were nearly destroyed by a Veng’en cruiser yesterday, that we now have a Veng’en warrior walking freely aboard our ship and that the captain intends to sail directly into Veng’en space with the aim of making friends, I don’t believe that I can let the captain’s decisions go unchallenged.’

  Bra’hiv’s grip on the glass tightened. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because you’re the captain’s staunchest supporter, along with Commander Ry’ere,’ Mikhain replied. ‘I could go out into the ship and curry favour with others who feel the same as me, but then I would simply be forming an alliance of convenience against the captain and his supporters. I don’t want a civil war erupting aboard this ship.’

  ‘You’re talking about mutiny,’ Bra’hiv growled.

  ‘I’m talking about the captain’s ability to command this ship.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘Not if it’s handled correctly.’

  Bra’hiv set his untouched drink down on the XO’s table without another word and turned to leave the cabin. As he reached for the door Mikhain spoke again.

  ‘I’m not alone in this,’ he said. ‘I’m merely the spokesperson.’

  Bra’hiv froze with his hand on the wall panel. ‘How many?’

  ‘About a dozen,’ Mikhain replied, ‘not to mention the civilians, nearly all of whom are crying out to avoid further unnecessary conflict.’

  Bra’hiv turned back to the XO. ‘Just months ago they were cheering the captain’s decision to turn back for home, to take on the Word and the Legion.’

  ‘I know,’ Mikhain replied. ‘The captain is good at whipping up a frenzy when it suits him, but the entire population is trapped down there in the sanctuary and forced to watch as the captain takes risk after risk. Now, they’re being told we’re heading directly into the territory of one of our most feared enemies and with Dhalere gone they have nobody to speak for them.’

  ‘And you think that you should be that person?’

  ‘No,’ Mikhain replied, ‘but without a system of checks and balances we’re becoming less of a democracy aboard ship and more like a dictatorship. The captain isn’t listening to anybody else but himself and he’s not on his game right now.’

  ‘He’s got us this far.’

  ‘And how the hell much further do you want to go?’ Mikhain asked. ‘Do you want us to sail into Veng’en space and ask for help? From them? After all that’s happened and all that the Legion has done? They’ll destroy us as soon as they see us, no questions asked.’

  Bra’hiv’s fists clenched by his side.

  ‘My duty is to serve the captain.’

  ‘Your duty is to serve the colonies,’ Mikhain snapped in reply. ‘There are over a thousand people aboard this ship, general, not just the captain.’

  ‘And if we allow one coup, what’s to stop the next one, or the one after that?’ Bra’hiv said. ‘Once you set the precedent that the captain’s authority is not absolute, then you’ll have insurrection after insurrection plaguing this ship. It’ll be the end of us all.’

  ‘Then what do you propose?’ Mikhain demanded. ‘That we just let the captain sail us into certain death?’

  Bra’hiv hit the wall panel and the XO’s door hissed open.

  ‘I suugest that you do your job and follow orders,’ he snapped. ‘It’s kept us alive so far.’

  ‘So far,’ Mikhain agreed. ‘But for how much longer?’

  The general did not reply as he left the XO’s quarters and let the door slide shut behind him.

  ***

  XLVI

  The interrogation room was cold, sufficiently so that the skin on Sergeant Djimon’s arms was raised into
small bumps. Coming from Caneeron, a planet more of ice than water, one might have expected the Marine to cope better with low temperatures, Bra’hiv reflected in silence. But then again, the cold grey walls and bare white light above were designed to make the captive feel as isolated and helpless as possible.

  ‘You understand what Maroon Protocol means, don’t you sergeant?’

  Bra’hiv’s voice was without compromise, as though Djimon’s fate was already sealed. The Marine betrayed no emotion as he replied.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then you’ll know that your actions of yesterday aboard the Sylph are actionable by me, as your general, and that marooning you on the first habitable moon or planet is an acceptable punishment for betrayal and cowardice.’

  Djimon’s heavy features did not react to the insults, but his big fists clenched and his wrists strained against the manacles pinning them to the table before Bra’hiv.

  ‘I betrayed nobody,’ Djimon snarled.

  Bra’hiv remained impassive.

  ‘You abandoned a fellow Marine to death in combat in order to save your own skin,’ Bra’hiv replied. ‘You then told us that you saw him die in order to cover your own betrayal. Do you contest this?’

  ‘Yes,’ Djimon replied.

  ‘Then tell me why I should not have you locked down until you can be left to fend for yourself on whatever hell–hole of a planet we next come across?’

  ‘I did not abandon Qayin to die.’

  ‘Then tell me what happened.’

  ‘He was trapped beyond my reach and he could not be saved. The detonator I had set upon the wall of the corridor was counting down and the Legion was almost upon me. If I had not set the charge to blow I would have been risking all of our lives instead of Qayin’s alone. There was no choice. Qayin either got blown apart by the blast or caught by the Legion.’