by Jay Allan
“Captain Lafarge, let me make something clear to you. I’m a naval officer. Interrogating prisoners is not normally within my range of duties. I neither enjoy it, nor do I think I’m especially good at it. But I can assure you there are other forces on their way here even as we speak, and those ships carry trained interrogation teams.” He paused, unable to hide the disgust in his voice. “Please,” he finally said, “tell me what I want to know, and perhaps I will be able to intervene, to protect you from what otherwise surely awaits you.”
Lafarge didn’t respond at first. She was angry, and as anyone who knew her could have attested, she was stubborn, so mind-numbingly pigheaded as to be almost a legend among her small circle of acquaintances. But it was apparent this Union captain wasn’t trying to harm her. In fact, she was pretty sure he was uncomfortable with the whole thing. It was the other one, she suspected, who had ordered her food withheld. The political officer. Pierre seemed like a reasonable guy, or at least as close to one as a Union captain could be, but Laussanne was a piece of shit, and if she managed to escape somehow, she’d promised herself she’d slip a blade into his fat gut and slice right up to his ribcage.
“I’m afraid we’re in for a long and unpleasant session, Captain, because I told you the truth already. I don’t know anything about that ship.”
“Then I fear this will be a long session Captain Lafarge, and an unpleasant one…at least for you.” The voice was different, not Pierre’s. Laussanne stood in the doorway, staring in like a vulture.
Lafarge glared at the commissar, her gaze radiating unvarnished hatred. She already had a dozen bruises and cuts from Laussanne’s interrogation sessions. The little shit’s efforts were far from enough to break her…but they were more than sufficient to earn her enmity. One slip up, a single moment of carelessness, and she would kill the bastard.
She pulled her arms backward, testing the strength of the bonds holding her in the chair. They were strong, too powerful for her to break free. She pulled one of her arms upward, trying to force her hand through the shackle, to slip out rather than break the plastic ties. But no luck. They were just too tight.
Laussanne walked across the room, stopping right in front of Lafarge. “Captain, we’ve wasted enough time. Captain Pierre was quite right when he told you things will get significantly worse for you when our reinforcements arrive. So, why not cooperate now, when it can do you some good? Tell us what we want to know, and we will ensure that you are well treated, perhaps even released once we have removed the artifact from this system. You aren’t a combatant in this war. There’s no need for you—and your comrade—to die in an interrogation chamber.”
Lafarge didn’t move. She just glared back, nothing in her eyes save rage and hatred. She was scared, of course, but she had no intention of giving this slimy bastard the satisfaction of seeing it. She wouldn’t have given Laussanne the information he wanted, even if she’d had it. Even if she’d believed his lies about sparing her. Quite the contrary, she knew the key to her survival rested on holding back, on sustaining their belief that she knew something, that she was worth keeping alive.
She wondered how Merrick was doing, if they had interrogated him as they had her. Almost certainly, she answered to herself.
Vig’s strong…he can hold out.
She was sure she had a difficult time ahead of her, and there was no question the ultimate end would be a bullet to the brain or a shove out the airlock. She had to look for an opportunity, any opportunity, to escape.
Hopefully before they bring Vig in here and threaten to blow his brains all over me if I don’t tell them what they want to know.
She didn’t know what she’d do if that happened. She was confident in her own ability to endure pain, but watching her friend murdered in front of her was something else entirely. She was a little surprised they hadn’t tried that already, but she suspected with only two hostages, they weren’t ready to sacrifice one of them. Not yet. And threatening to do it and not following through would be worse for their efforts than not trying it at all.
“Okay, Captain…” Laussanne turned away…and then he swung around, bringing his backhand across her face in a savage slap. She gritted her teeth against the pain, but she managed to clamp down on the yell that had wanted to escape. There was no way she was giving that piece of shit the gratification. “Let’s talk about your ship instead. Where did your people go?”
She felt a rush of strength, if not of real hope. Unless they were making a serious effort to mislead her, Pegasus had escaped. She was gratified that most of her people had gotten away. And she drew a morbid satisfaction from the idea that Pegasus would warn the Confederation, that naval ships would come here and blast these arrogant Union thugs to atoms. Lafarge hadn’t had warm feelings for the navy before. But her disdain for the Confederation government didn’t extend to conflicts with the Union. She was patriotic in her own way, and one thing was certain. If she lived long enough to see it, she’d cheer as the Confederation ships flooded into the system.
Laussanne slapped her again. “We will get along much better, Captain, if you answer my questions.”
She looked up at her tormentor and smiled. It felt strange on her face, utterly at odds with her emotions of the moment, but she couldn’t think of anything that would piss Laussanne off more.
“You hit like my mother.” She glared at the commissar, struggling to allow not the slightest hint of pain or fear on her face.
“You think your ship escaped, Captain,” the political officer said, trying but failing to contain his anger. “But there are Union task forces all around this system. Chasseur did not pursue your friends, because there were ships waiting beyond the transit point. There is little doubt that your vessel was destroyed or disabled by now. If any of your crew survived, they are now prisoners, Captain. And when they arrive back here, they will die, one at a time in front of you. Unless you tell us what we want to know.”
It took all her discipline to control her fiery rage. She hated this Union political officer…she hated him with a fury she had never felt before. If she’d been able to work her hands free, she’d have lunged for him, taken her chance to kill the bastard, even knowing the guards would shoot her down.
Calm down…he’s just trying to push your buttons. If they had more ships nearby, they would be here near the artifact, not spread out across the Badlands.
She knew her logic was sound, that Pegasus had probably found a clear route back to Confederation space. But, despite her anger at herself for allowing it, she had to admit that Laussanne had gotten to her. She didn’t believe him, but he’d fanned the fires of doubt in her mind. And worrying about her people would only weaken her, drain her ability to resist.
Her thoughts went to her ship. Her people didn’t have ranks, not really. She was captain, and Vig was first officer. After that, the crew was just the crew. Would they work well together without her? Or would they fracture, fight with each other?
Rina will take charge…
Yes, she believed that with all of her heart. Rina Strand was tough, far tougher than she typically let on. She would take command of Pegasus, and she would get the ship back to Confederation space. The more Lafarge thought about it, the surer she became.
“Captain…Laussanne, isn’t it? You were too slow and incompetent to prevent my ship from escaping, and you’re too stupid and weak to force me to do your bidding. So, let’s just save some time, and give me another one of those weak little slaps instead of boring me to death.” Her eyes darted over toward Pierre. She could see trepidation in the captain’s eyes, fear that things would escalate. There was something more there too. Was it respect? Lafarge suspected the Union captain didn’t like the political officer much more than she did.
Laussanne’s hand struck her face, harder this time, hard enough to almost take her breath away. But she just laughed. It took all she had to maintain the façade, but she did it. Then she looked up, her gaze as cold as space itself.
&n
bsp; “Did I say you hit like my mother, Captain? I meant to say you hit like my grandmother.”
Lafarge didn’t even know who her grandmother had been…she barely remembered her mother. But she was pleased with herself at the barb, and one glance at Laussanne’s face, twisted in crazed anger confirmed its effectiveness.
It was worth it, even as she saw the shadow of his hand approaching her again, this time balled into an angry fist.
* * *
“Scanners clear, Captain. No contacts.” Commander Duroc’s tone was crisp, professional, as always.
Captain Eugenie Descartes sat at Triomphe’s command station. She was edgy, uncomfortable with the mission…and with the extra contingent of political officers she’d been saddled with. She’d more or less managed to maintain a certain détente with Commander Belgarde over the year they’d served together on Triomphe. Belgarde wasn’t a bad sort, at least as commissars went. She knew he was there to spy on her, of course, to ensure her loyalty to the state, but at least he didn’t seem to question her every decision.
Colonel Cloutier and his people were another matter entirely. They’d arrived with orders to set out for the Badlands, and they’d shut down her questions in no uncertain terms. They were pure Sector Nine, that much she’d been able to tell from the start. There was no question in her mind that, despite the uniforms they wore and the ranks they bore, the new arrivals were agents of the dreaded intelligence agency.
Descartes looked at the main display, at the clear stretch of black between her entry point and the transwarp line to the next system. The stars in the Badlands each had half a dozen designations, numbering systems and names, formally recognized and otherwise, given by the explorers who’d charted them or the bureaucratic bodies that pompously exerted their authority over the dead worlds of mankind’s past. She’d ordered the Confederation’s numbered designations to be displayed to avoid confusion. The Confeds had done the most extensive survey missions, and their system was the most comprehensive. The last thing she needed was confusion, especially when she already knew so little about the mission.
She sighed softly, wondering if Colonel Cloutier or one of his pack of high-strung aides would see disloyalty in her use of enemy nomenclature.
“Bring us to the Z-89 transit point. Decelerate as we approach. I want a dead stop one hundred thousand meters from the transwarp portal.” Descartes knew almost nothing of the mission, save for the fact that she was to link up with two other battleships—one of them Vaillant, the pride of the Union fleet—and continue on the course she’d been given. She had no idea what justified such a concentration of force in the middle of nowhere while the fleet was locked in a death struggle with the Confeds. Her repeated requests for more information had been met with increasingly emphatic insistences that she knew all she needed to know. She disagreed, of course, vehemently. She was the veteran captain of a Union battleship, and she didn’t like advancing into virtually unknown space blind. But she knew how far she could push with her inquiries, and when it was time to back off.
Descartes was a decorated officer, one who had attained a certain amount of political clout of her own. But she knew better than to take on Sector Nine. Her parents depended on her. Her whole family did. The success she’d attained in her career had taken them all from the desperate poverty they’d endured before. She had no doubts—none at all—that her mother and father would have been dead by now save for the benefits of her rank and career. And she was far from blind to the fact that Sector Nine could return her family to its former squalor, or worse, in a heartbeat.
“Yes, Captain. We should reach the designated point in forty-seven minutes.”
“Very well.” Her eyes darted back to the display. There were three other transit points into the system, and there was no activity at any of them.
Where the hell are they?
She didn’t like the idea of sitting here and waiting…though the thought of going on alone wasn’t much more appealing.
The lift door slid open.
“Captain Descartes…”
She felt her skin crawl as Cloutier’s grating voice projected onto her bridge.
“Yes, Colonel, what can I do for you?” Her tone was courteous, verging on obsequious. She knew the smart way to behave, but that didn’t stop it from making her sick to her stomach.
“Our mission is of the utmost importance, Captain. If the other vessels do not transit into the system within an hour of our arrival at the transwarp point, we will go on alone. Please make all preparations so there is no delay.”
“Yes, Colonel. We will be ready.” She almost asked again what was so urgent out in the middle of nowhere, but this time she held her tongue. She’d already asked as many times as she dared. Now, all she could do was wait and see what Cloutier chose to tell her. She didn’t like it, but she was experienced enough to know she had no choice.
“Commander, advise the engine room we will be transiting in approximately one hour and forty-five minutes. I want all systems prepped and ready.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“All weapons stations are to be manned and ready before transit. We will be prepared for anything we find in the next system. Understood?” She was uncomfortable, feeling as though Cloutier was watching, and judging, her every action.
“Yes, Captain.” Her exec’s tone suggested he was as uncomfortable as she was with the lack of information they had been given. But Commander Duroc was a savvy veteran…and he knew as well as she did when to keep his mouth shut and follow orders.
Then Descartes heard the sound of the lift doors closing, and she confirmed her expectation with a quick glance. Yes, Cloutier was gone.
She let out a deep breath, and her stomach unknotted, partially at least. There was one good thing about Cloutier. He didn’t tend to spend any more time on the bridge than was necessary. Even better, Belgarde, who had always had the unfortunate habit of planting himself at a workstation and spending hours watching as her officers executed their duties, apparently felt compelled to attend to the colonel, leaving her bridge blissfully free of political minders for extended periods of time.
She exhaled again, harder this time. She might have the bridge to herself, but she was still moving forward, into the unknown, without the slightest idea of why her ship was there or what it might face.
“Damn,” she muttered, a bit less under her breath than she’d intended.
Chapter Eight
From the Personal Log of Captain Tyler Barron
We are in the Badlands as I write this, heading at maximum speed to the supposed location of an ancient vessel, one that may contain sufficient technology to fundamentally alter the power dynamic between nations. It is a crucially important mission, though also one I wish had fallen to someone else. I find these empty systems and haunted lifeless worlds very unsettling. There is the familiarity, of course, recollections of several encounters here during my earlier career, but there is more to it more than that.
I trained my entire life for war. I was born to this destiny, and I followed my birthright to the Academy and through early service as a junior officer to command of my own ship. All that time I prepared for the conflict I knew would come, my generation’s struggle with the Union, the same battle my father had fought, and my grandfather, and even the great-grandfather I never knew.
Through all that time, listening to my grandfather’s stories, competing with other cadets at the Academy, even on the bridge of my own battleship, I viewed that destiny through a single lens. That of victory. This time we will defeat the Union. The next war will see our final victory, and it will free our children from the need to continue this deadly struggle. I understood danger, of course, but it was theoretical then, a romantic image of empty chairs and toasts to fallen comrades.
Then I actually experienced war. Not a skirmish with pirates or smugglers, but actual combat against other warriors, intense and deadly. Our victory over the Alliance battleship brought me renown and glory of
my own—earned rather than inherited—and yet inside it filled me with doubts, with regret. The satisfaction I’d expected never materialized. Katrine Rigellus was a worthy opponent, but moreover, she was honorable, at least according to her culture. There was no joy in killing such an adversary, only a deep sense of waste. My childish pretensions, mindless images of good and evil, black and white, shattered that day.
I was born into privilege, a wealthy family, and moreover, as the heir apparent to my nation’s most celebrated hero. My grandfather was famous on every world of the Confederation. Katrine’s grandmother was born a slave, her world subjugated by neighboring planets for nearly a century. It is easy to criticize the Alliance, to label them as warmongers. Yet, I think back to fishing trips with my grandfather, and I wonder how my attitudes would be different if he’d told me of servitude instead of heroism, if he’d borne the scars not of his battles, but of the taskmaster’s whip. Would I have been that different than Katrine? Would Megara and Corellia have emerged from such a past to found the current Confederation? Or would they have taken the same path the Palatians of the Alliance did?
And now, the war so long expected has come. We have fought the Union for a year, a struggle long expected and yet exceeding even the direst predictions in its horror and devastation. I try to draw comfort from the idea that this struggle is clearer. We fight for our freedom, for our very survival. There should be no ambiguity, no crosscurrents of guilt and uncertainty as we fight this terrible enemy.
