by Chris Walley
Every eye was watching him. “On that word, we will enter the cabin and encourage a surrender. Now everyone get your weapons. Have Slabodal here tied to a seat. He can wait for us.”
Hearing his name, Slabodal began to speak. “Don’t kill me. You promised.”
As Merral took the armor he was offered, he spoke to the man. “Slabodal, what do you want?”
“I want freedom.”
“If you have spoken truthfully, you may have it.”
As Slabodal was tied to a seat and the soldiers began lining up with their weapons, Merral slipped into the rear of the pilot’s cabin and hastily changed out of the dress uniform and into the armored leggings, jacket, and gloves. Then, placing the helmet on his head, he joined the others.
He picked up a rifle. “Let’s go.”
The dully lit corridor that ran along the lower spine of the ship was almost silent. Other than the quiet footfalls of the soldiers, the only noises were the low-pitched hums and soft rumbles that Merral had decided were a feature of all spaceships. As he looked around, watching for any hint of peril, Merral sensed a shift in scale from the Star; the Sacrifice was, in every way, a bigger ship. The doors and corridors were larger, so much so that the twin lines of soldiers were able to move along them with room to spare. It registered with him that the gray girders and struts that he could see were built on a massive scale and that every so often there were structures encircling the corridors that appeared to be capable of sealing off sections. This is a ship built to take damage.
Yet he saw more than just the military architecture. Every ten meters or so was a niche or alcove with some sort of image or statue inside. Most of the images were of bizarre and appalling figures with multiple heads or clawed or tentacled limbs. Merral felt they were not just cold, neutral statues; they were statements of devotion or fear to real beings. But was there more? He found it hard to avoid the feeling that the images seemed to watch them as they passed. We are deep in enemy territory now.
Merral saw Luke stare at one figure and give a stern shake of his head. If we win here, they will all be in the vacuum in hours.
Soon the party had reached the ladder up to the bridge. Pausing only long enough to flick their faceplates down, Ilyas and Slee began climbing. Vero turned to Merral, waved a hand in a slow, theatrical gesture of farewell, tapped his visor down, and climbed after them. As Betafor and Azeras followed, Merral signaled the rest of the team on.
They moved forward through a long, empty chamber, which Merral decided would be suitable as a temporary hold for prisoners. Then, in the section beyond, he realized he could hear a ragged and excited noise.
A closed door loomed. Merral stopped before it, aware that the noise, now recognizable as the sound of yelling and the rhythmic stamping of feet, came from just beyond.
Suddenly he heard Vero’s voice in his earpiece. “My friend, we have the bridge. One easily intimidated Allenix. Comms systems secured. Now, if you put your visor down, Betafor is going to patch through the imagery from Compartment 1-14.”
Merral slipped the visor down in front of his eyes and an image of a partially darkened room appeared. At the center, twin ceiling spotlights focused on the atrocious scene of two creatures, both covered in a bloody red sheen, thrashing and clawing at each other on a platform screened about by mesh. To one side, just outside the mesh, a large bald-headed man with a tattooed face was seated on a high stool, leaning over and prodding the creatures with a long trident.
In the darkness around the platform, Merral could make out a rough circle of seated men yelling and howling their excitement. On the far wall were two colored screens showing pulsing lines. Puzzled for a moment as to their significance, Merral soon decided that they were biometric readouts from the dogs showing at least heartbeat and blood pressure. What a wicked marriage of technology and barbarity!
Merral reached for his belt and pulled off a spherical object.
“Vero,” he whispered, “can Betafor control the lighting in that room?”
A few moments later came the answer. “Y-yes.”
“Good. I’m going to use a neuro-stun grenade. Tell her to put the lighting up high after it explodes.”
Merral turned to face the soldiers, gestured to the grenade in his hand, and motioned for all visors to be down and for them to look away. Then he turned to the door, primed the grenade, and pressed the button to open the door. As the door slid open a few centimeters, he flung the grenade in and looked away.
Even seen indirectly and filtered by the suit’s reactive visor, the flash of light that followed was enough to make him blink. An instant later, there was a long pulsing blast of tuned frequencies that, although muffled by the ear defenders, still made his head reel.
Flicking off the safety catch on his gun, Merral turned to the open door. As he did, the lighting came on to show a scene of utter chaos. On the floor, men were writhing and thrashing about with their hands over their eyes. On the platform, the two bloodied creatures were locked together, their blood-stained metal claws continuing to tear at each other.
As the others fanned out swiftly behind him, Merral stepped forward, arcing his gun barrel this way and that in search of threats. He was aware of sounds—the howls of the animals, still locked in their frenzied grappling, and the groans and yells of the men.
Merral touched the microphone button on his helmet.
“Hands on heads!” he shouted in Saratan. “Hands on heads! This is the Assembly. We do not wish to harm you. Hands on heads! Now! Now! Now!”
He caught the smell now—the warm, sour stink of sweat and feverish excitement. Slowly, stunned men lifted hands onto their heads. On the platform, the dogs continued to thrash and rip at each other. Just outside the pen, the bald-headed man was still on his stool but was slumped against the mesh.
Suddenly the figure stirred, shook himself, and rose upright. Somewhat unsteadily, he grabbed his trident and aimed it at Merral. He flexed his arm back as if to throw.
In an action of pure instinct, Merral swung his gun up, sighted briefly, and fired twice. Over the sights, he saw a look of pained shock cross the man’s tattooed face. He screeched in pain and the trident was thrown. As it clattered harmlessly at Merral’s feet, the man rose high on the stool and, clutching his chest, staggered and tumbled heavily against the mesh around the platform.
Horror-struck, Merral saw the rim of the mesh yield. With arms flailing in a desperate attempt to stop himself, the big man slid down inside the pen. He hadn’t even hit the floor before the dogs broke off from each other and turned upon him.
There were screams, a choking sound, an abrupt silence; then, with new yowls, the dogs returned to tearing at each other.
I too have killed a man!
Feeling sickened, Merral snapped an order. “Kill those dogs!”
There was the loud snap of weapons fire and the dogs tottered and slumped down. The howling waned to a whimpering and then died away. On the wallscreen, the waveforms faltered and then flattened.
Merral gave another order and in groups of three his team began the much-rehearsed procedure of taking prisoners. While one soldier pointed a gun at a dazed man, another searched him and the third lashed his hands behind his back with a self-tightening strip.
Merral looked around and noticed that almost all the men now had their hands on their heads. Munt is dead, but where is this Klime?
Without warning, another man stood up, his head crowned with a single birdlike tuft and his scarred face twisted with anger.
“Fight! They are just women!” he shouted scornfully in a Saratan so accented that Merral could barely understand it. “Come on! Kill them!”
Klime, the master-at-arms. Merral saw dazed eyes turning toward the man. This is the test! They outnumber us, and if they rush us, they may overpower us.
The man with the tuft pulled a black gun from within his jacket and raised it high in a gesture. “Attack!” he cried. He began to run forward.
He had gone t
wo paces when there were at least two loud, angry cracks. The man jerked back as if tugged by wires and a wet redness appeared on his forehead and chest. The gun fell from his hands and hit the ground with a clang.
Merral, aware of the smoke drifting from the sniper’s rifle next to him, urgently trailed his gun barrel over the other men, watching for any hint that they were about to follow the suggestion of the master-at-arms. He saw looks and murmurs exchanged and received sullen, hate-filled glances but was relieved to see that no one made any move to attack.
That danger has passed.
“Keep hands on heads!” he shouted again. “We do not wish to hurt you.”
He glanced around to the door. Four men, hands tied behind their backs, were already seated against the wall there. Three more were being searched and cuffed.
We are in control. Merral tried to hold back the feeling of relief. But I killed a man. Recognizing the temptation to wallow in recrimination, he postponed any further analysis. I need to make decisions. Where is everybody? He was looking around when, on the periphery of his vision, he saw something moving.
As he turned, a figure flung itself at him.
Merral had a brief but terrible montage of impressions: a face riven by deep scars; a nose carved away; weird, clawed hands holding long, needled daggers; a mouth open in a screaming yell of hatred.
As Merral ducked, a deafening blast erupted from beside him.
The figure buckled and slithered bloodily to the ground. As it did, Merral saw that where the man’s ears had been was just scar tissue.
His stomach churning, Merral turned to see Lloyd. The big man shook his head mournfully. “I’m going to get a reputation.”
“The priest. That’s who he is.”
“Was. Past tense.” Lloyd stuck a foot out and rolled the man over. “Grotesque.”
Merral looked, seeing with a new pang of horror that the man had only two fingers and a thumb on each hand. Hanging from a cord around his neck were the remaining four fingers.
Trying to suppress his feelings of nausea, Merral surveyed the scene. The three deaths seemed to have subdued the men of the Sacrifice, and although many of the prisoners glowered, there was no mood for resistance.
A quarter of an hour later, all the surviving crew of the Sacrifice had been tied up and were seated in a long, hostile line against the wall of the large, empty compartment Merral had seen earlier. Slabodal had been brought up to join them.
“Take charge,” Merral ordered Helena. “I’m going up to the bridge. Find who the medical orderly is and get him to find body bags for those three and Captain Haqzintal. I want them treated with dignity.”
16
The bridge of the Sacrifice was so sprawling and so filled with equipment that for a terrible second or two, Merral was seized by anxiety that it was too complex and that they would never master this ship. Then he saw Azeras and Laura calmly looking at instruments on what was clearly the command console and, to their side, Vero scanning screens of information, and he was reassured.
Merral looked around. At either side of the room, Ilyas and Slee stood cradling weapons. In the center of the floor two Allenix units were facing each other. One was leaning down on folded forelimbs while the other was standing upright on all fours. Both had the Lamb and Stars on their tunics, and for a moment Merral couldn’t tell which was Betafor. Finally, he noticed that the one that wasn’t kneeling had more faded and chipped paintwork and decided it was Betafor.
“Who is this, Betafor?” he asked.
“This is Kappaten. She has agreed that we are now in control of the ship and is now serving the Assembly. I am absorbing her data.”
“I see.” That will probably keep Betafor busy. “Does she speak Communal?”
“Only the older form. I will update her language banks when I have finished extracting the information from her. But there’s no need to speak to her. I have her information. She is now the subordinate Allenix.”
“Aah.” Merral glanced at Lloyd, who just shook his head. “At some point, we would like to talk to her. But, Betafor, is the ship secure? Are all the crew accounted for? Can we be sure there are no roving Krallen packs?”
“Commander, my data sources tell me that in addition to the captain there are . . . three dead crew and twenty-six under custody. There are no . . . roving Krallen packs.”
“Very well. Now, a question. What do you suggest I do with the men we have captured? I can’t keep them in prison.”
“The obvious solution is to kill them.”
“I do not wish to do that.”
“I have to point out you have killed four people already.”
“Yes,” Merral heard himself sigh. “An unfortunate necessity. Look, are there lifeboats I can put them in?”
“Yes.”
“Can we cripple the communications and send them to . . . I don’t know . . . Khalamaja on slow routing? Several weeks at least?”
“That can be done.”
“Very well. Continue on the planned course. We must do nothing that draws attention to us. If we get any messages from the Dominion, ignore them. Let them assume the communication systems are malfunctioning.”
“As you wish.”
Merral walked over to the command console. Azeras had moved away to another smaller display, leaving Laura scrolling down a large screen.
Laura looked up. “Well done, Commander.”
“Hardly. We killed four of them, and I wish we hadn’t.” He bent down next to her so he wouldn’t have to shout. “Do you reckon you can fly this?”
Laura looked at him and then smiled. “I reckon I can. From A to B at least. It’s not very different from the Star. Don’t expect any fancy maneuvers, though. Not yet.”
Merral gestured around. “If it’s so easy, what’s all this for?”
Laura’s face creased in amusement. “You asked me about flying it. All this is for defense and attack. That will require a lot of training for others.”
“Okay. But you have no problems with us transferring to this from the Star?”
“No. It’s a risk. But we have to take it. This ship has so much that it will be invaluable to the Assembly. And it’s built for defense. On this we can survive what would destroy the Star.”
“So you are happy?”
There was a new smile. “Commander, I’m sitting at the control desk of a new and stolen warship. Flying doesn’t get better.”
Merral saw Vero hunched over a display and sat down next to his friend.
Vero gave him the briefest of glances. “I think I’ve done it.” The words were just above a whisper. “I’m copying all files. I think it should be s-secure.” For a fraction of a second the eyes flicked over to Betafor.
“But, my friend, there’s so much. And it’s all new.” The words bubbled out. “I’m just skimming folders as they are copied. We have details of the fleet, strategic plans, schematics for ships, engineering . . . you name it. Things on the lord-emperor himself. I can’t understand it all. I will have it translated.” Then he seemed to recollect something. “Well done down there. I watched it all. A fine performance.”
Merral shook his head. “I killed—,” he began.
But Vero’s attention had already returned to the screen. “So much data! I wish I could read two lots at once like Betafor. Everyone—everything—has its weaknesses; I’m going to try to find the Dominion’s.”
“Well, be careful. Look, Vero, I’m about to order that we take this ship as our main vessel, get everybody over quickly, and keep the Star as the backup ship. I’m going to send all the captured crew off in a lifeboat on a slow voyage to Khalamaja. Three weeks, to give us plenty of time to be gone.”
“Excellent,” Vero said in a distracted tone and gestured at the screen. “And Krallen specifications too! Let’s see . . .”
Merral shook his head and approached Azeras. The man looked up at his arrival, and Merral glimpsed a look of pained, grieving resignation.
“Comman
der,” Azeras said. “Can I talk to you? Privately?”
Merral walked with the sarudar to the far end of the bridge. There Azeras leaned against a wall and slumped down, his face a portrait of dejection. “I have just been checking their records. There have been no contacts with the True Freeborn since we stole the Star. That was the last recorded action. The war against the True Freeborn has been over for nearly a year. My people . . . are no more.”
“You have my utter sympathies,” Merral said, feeling that it was a pathetically inadequate statement. What must it be like to lose your entire culture?
“I feared this,” Azeras said with a heavy bitterness. “But I had to know . . . that we were all destroyed. Our worlds burned or looted.” He looked away as if trying to hide his grief, then shook himself and turned back to Merral.
“What will you do now?” Merral asked.
“I have made no decision about my future.”
“The offer to join us still stands.”
“Thank you, Commander. Were I younger, less war-scarred . . . then perhaps I might change. But the combination of war and years has stiffened me.” Then a weary, joyless smile flitted across his face. “But I am failing in my duty, Commander. Congratulations on your seizure. And without loss! The Assembly learns old skills fast.”
“Sadly.”
“What are your plans now?”
“I intend to make this ship our main vessel and use the Star as a backup. Send the captured crew off on a slow lifeboat to Khalamaja with the signaling systems out of order.”
Merral saw Azeras leaning closer. He whispered, “But the mission stays . . . as planned? To wait for Lezaroth?”
