From the Torment of Dreams

by Iain McKinnon

  The report continued, “The craft is minimally armed and unescorted.

  “Primary objective: Prevent the Coma Berenices from reaching Neotra.

  “Secondary Action: If possible salvage any supplies from the vessel that will aid the Neotran war effort.”

  Jackson looked out of the cockpit at the rest of the ships in his squadron. They too hung there immobile as if frozen in time.

  Sitting alone in the chilly cockpit Jackson was unable to thaw his thoughts. The empty moments alone stretched on leaving him to dwell on his situation. Grinding on him was his culpability; there would be nothing to shield him from the blame for this atrocity.

  “Oh, I was just following orders,” but Jackson knew this was scant defence.

  “What I'm about to do I do of my own volition,” he thought, “The onus for this is mine, the sin for me to carry.”

  He ran a gloved hand through his short brown hair. Gusts of misty air tumbled out of his mouth with each breath. Silent running meant cutting the power to a minimum. After days of waiting much of the heat from the ships insulated hull had bled off into space.

  Jackson tugged in turn on the fingers of his gloves. Easing both pairs off he dropped them onto his lap. His unprotected fingers punched up the heating system on his computer screen. The console beeped softly as he keyed in the request to increase the cabin temperature.

  “We're too close,” he told himself, finger hovering over the enact command, “the Berenices might detect it.”

  A thought flashed into his head, “I could sabotage the mission.”

  As quickly as it had formed he dismissed it. The Nationalistic rhetoric sprang to mind, “Until Neotra expels the Terran Alliance from her soil we will forever toil under her yoke.”

  But more important than ideology was Jackson's Captaincy, “If this attack doesn't succeed I'll be demoted back down to Navigator or worse.”

  The frosty air nipped at Jackson's fingers. As he reached out to retrieve the gloves his attention was lured to a glint of light. The gold band around his ring finger caught the glow from the monitors and distilled it to a warm glimmer.

  “I'll just perform my duty and be on my way,” he told the empty cockpit.

  “Carry out my orders, and before I know it I'll be back in Kathy's arms and boasting about my heroism,” he tried his best not to consider the outcome of his simple orders.

  Like a good soldier he was to carry out his mission. A mission he knew would end a lot of lives.

  “I'm just apprehensive because this is my first experience as a Captain,” he tried telling himself, “After all I'm not a trained military leader, I work for customs.”

  It was impossible to blur the truth of what he was about to do.

  Looking down at his hands he caught himself turning the wedding ring around his finger. The solid metal rim rubbed softly against his knuckle.

  “At least I was a customs officer before war broke out.”

  Jackson heard footfalls coming up the corridor to the cockpit. He swivelled round in his chair to see who it was.

  “That's all I can do until we power up,” Shen lent against the bulkhead. The feathered lines in her cheeks stood out from the pink flush of her skin and her thin lips were bright red from the chill.

  “You've got that look on your face. What you brooding about now?” Shen said wiping her hands with a grubby yellow cloth.

  “Nothing,” he denied as he pulled his gloves back on.

  “I've known you all your adult life young man so don't pretend I can't tell when you're in a mood.”

  Jackson tried to divert Shen, “You have not known me all my adult life! I've only been here seven years.”

  “I've got a son...”

  “...Not much older than you,” Jackson barged in to finish Shen's mantra, “I know, you don't have to harp on. Remember you're my Engineer not my mother.”

  “You're still a little boy, you all are, not one of you ever grows up.”

  “You're one to talk. What about our last night in port?” Jackson pointed an accusing finger at his shipmate and a sly smile crept across his lips.

  “I don't know what you mean,” she said flicking her gaze away in theatrical disdain.

  “Flirting like a school girl, grinning and giggling at every word that guy from Baxsell's ship had to say.”

  “Well he was rather dishy, and he was a divorcee too.”

  “I'm surprised you can remember.”

  Shen paid no heed to Jackson's mocking tone, “As I recall it was you we had to carry back to the ship.”

  “No that was Mornan! Got you there.”

  “Well you're both still little boys,” Shen said in her most matronly of voices, “you not even in your thirties yet and Mornan pimple-faced and fresh out of college, just like you not so long ago!”

  Jackson's grin slipped, “I don't feel so young any more Shen.”

  “Those pips on your lapel weighing you down?”

  “You taking the piss?” Jackson tugged at his bare collar, “Like half the supplies we ordered there still on Greda,”

  “We should never have left port without fresh coffee,” complained Shen.

  “We left too much behind on Greda.”

  “I sense you're getting morbid on me Jackson.”

  Jackson's tone dropped, “It's been quiet waiting out here. I didn't have time to think back on Greda, was all too hectic what with putting together the flotilla and the rest of the crew getting reassigned.”

  “Those reassignments got you what you wanted Jackson, your own Captaincy, and might I remind you a good few years before you would expect.”

  “Yeah I know.”

  “I don't know what you're fretting about you're not the only one,” Shen balled up the rag and hurled it at Jackson, “to be catapulted up the command ladder.”

  Jackson threw his arms in font of his face in mock defence to ridicule Shen's pitch. The grimy yellow missile unfurled and drifted to the floor short of its target.

  “That guy from Baxsell's ship was an Ensign last week now he's First Mate. At least you had the ambition to become a Captain, so the war sped that up. Congratulations, now get over it.”

  Jackson took in a deep breath of cold air, “I don't know if I've made the right choice.”

  “You never know until you look back. Take my first husband.”

  “First husband, you planning on a second?”

  “I'm not ruling it out,” Shen stood away from the wall to make ready her exit, “Anyway you'll do just fine. You're smart and clear-minded. We've both seen action, this'll be no different.”

  “You're right.”

  Jackson caught himself fondling the wedding ring through the material of his glove. He looked back up at Shen and slapped his palms on top of his lap.

  Jackson put on his best smile, “You're right of course. If we can take out smugglers on our own then we can take on a one hundred and seventy year old cargo vessel.”

  Captain Patron stood on the Command Deck looking down at the flight crew as they steered his ship to its destination. All was quiet, but he felt he had to be on the bridge as much as possible in these last few days. Tension was lower than he had expected despite the fact that war had been declared.

  The Alliance was suffering heavy losses in the ground actions on Neotra but if the reports were to be believed they had all but secured orbital control from the separatists.

  Garrison command relayed its flight orders and kept them updated on the E.T.A. for the escort. All of this chatter helped to reassure the command staff and maintain a high morale.

  But Patron's outward confidence was a charade, “If all is going so well then why has it taken them three days to dispatch an escort?”

  A junior officer turned to his Captain, “Sir. Fighter escort online. They report their arrival time to be one hour.”

  Patron nodded, “Acknowledge the signal and confirm with a sensor reading.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” the junior officer replied t
o the escort's message and checked his readouts. “Forward sensors confirm fighter detachment's... one moment sir, the sensors have picked up an electrical disturbance along our path.”

  Patron stepped up to the man's station, “Clarify that last scan, Mister.”

  “Reinitiating scanning. This is unusual; the disturbance is uniform,” the officer looked over his shoulder at his Captain. His puzzled expression showing his confusion, “it's artificial, and spread over an area of about one Klik. Energy output is estimated at one thousand Kila Joules, Sir.”

  Patrons jaw fell slack, “Engine start-up. It's an engine start-up! Red alert! All hands to battle stations. Time 'til encounter?”

  “Ten minutes, Sir.”

  “Get those escorts online. I want them alerted to our situation and I want them here in eight minutes. Secure the vessel; shut down all non-tactical functions,” Patron's heart raced fuelled by fear and adrenaline.

  Someone hit the warning klaxon and the lighting on the bridge changed as screens flashed red.

  “Captain, I have the escort's leader on line. He says their fuel expenditure would exclude safe return parameters.”

  “Fuck his fuel expenditure! If they're not here in eight minutes there won't be a ship to escort!”

  Jackson opened a channel to the ships in the Lupus squadron, “Lupus Alpha to all ships. Commence attack.”

  As the Coma Berenices hurtled towards the centre of the Asellus solar system a handful of stars lit up in her course. They seemed to hover for a moment before careering head-long towards the metal Leviathan.

  “Incoming missiles!”

  “Fire decoys!” Patron ordered.

  As the missiles homed in the Coma Berenices defended herself as best she could.

  The sky lit up with decoys deployed from the Terran vessel. A screen of nuclear destruction was unleashed to shield the freighter from the incoming bogies.

  The wave of Neotran warheads slammed head-on into the fiery cloud. Radiation burned straight into the projectiles as they passed through the epicentre. The rippling atomic furnace intensified as the shattered warheads provided more fuel for the firestorm.

  “Hard starboard!” Patron called to his helmsman. The Coma Berenices's engines propelled her sideways to prevent her from scorching in the defensive wall of flame. Clutching onto the guide rail Patron felt the vibration of the ship's engines. The fabric of the craft gave a low groan of disapproval at the harsh treatment.

  “How many bogies left in the air?” the Captain demanded.

  “Ah, five. Four to our port side...” the officer paused and turned from his screen to look at his Captain, “One directly ahead,”

  “All hands brace for impact!”

  The missile ran straight for the Coma Berenices. Five Kliks from the nose of its victim it exploded.

  Compared to the defence cloud emitted from the transport the spectacle was meagre. But the warheads launched from Lupus Alpha were never intended to breach the vessel.

  As the missile vaporised it threw forward a pulse of electro-magnetic energy. An invisible tidal wave washed over its quarry.

  Four billion circuits fell silent as the power on the Coma Berenices died.

  Lan felt sick. A heavy feeling of acid backed up from his stomach to his throat. He heard a sound in his head; no, it was outside. A voice. He focused his attention, trying to identify the figure in front of him.

  “Nicola?” Lan squinted his eyes to try and see through the darkness.

  The voice spoke again, “I ain't your mommy.”

  The haze over Lan's memory started to clear. He could feel the padded cot around him and the various pieces of hardware connected to his skin. A sharp tug and Lan felt a needle being whipped out from a vein in his arm.

  “Here, apply pressure with this,”

  Lan had a piece of gauze thrust into his hand, “Are we at Neotra?”

  The orderly grabbed Lan's unsure hand and positioned it firmly over the welling blood, “Na, you've had an early alarm call.”

  The orderly looked around the gloomy medical bay too preoccupied to pay Lan much attention.

  “I was dreaming of my ex.” Lan said.

  “Lucky for you.” the orderly replied without registering Lan’s comment.

  Lan pushed himself up on one elbow and peered over the lip of his crib. The ward was lit with an eerie hue. Emergency flares scattered on the floor cast crackling shadows along the walls.

  “The rest you can do yourself,” the medic slapped Lan on the shoulder, “now move it trooper!”

  “What's going on?” his question went unanswered; the medic was already extracting the next infantryman from his berth. Lan sat up and looked around.

  Something was restricting his breathing. He let out a deep cough and spat the dislodged contents of his throat onto the floor. The mucus left a bitter taste but the acrid moisture lubricated his parched mouth. He pulled loose the plastic tape that secured the various sensors and tubes on his body.

  One by one Lan removed the remaining intravenous needles. Fresh drops of blood seeped through the puncture wounds to form glossy domes of crimson.

  He twisted his torso hunching his shoulders, flexing his muscles to dispel the rigidity of six months enforced hibernation. The solid knots of muscles were not the result of stiffness brought on by immobility. Far from wasting away during the voyage his muscles had swollen to an impressive size. The combination of drugs and electrical stimulation had augmented his physique. His young body had been moulded to an athletic tone.

  Lan stepped out of the suspended animation chamber, careful not to tread bare foot into the patch of phlegm. The soles of his feet tingled from the chill of the cold metal floor. He shivered and brought his arms up against his chest to conserve warmth. The thin army issue shorts he wore did little to insulate his half-naked body.

  “Listen up!” a sergeant roared.

  The ambient chatter ceased instantly.

  “We are under attack. This vessel has been struck with an Electro-Magnetic field. All electricity is out.”

  There were murmurs of alarm from the assembled troops.

  Continuing the sergeant tried to allay their fears, “We're four days flight time from Neotra, so supporting units are not far away. Until we have friendly contact we are on our own. Section leaders: get your men armed and dressed and report to me in two minutes. Now move!” he clapped his hands together to emphasise the urgency, “This vessel may already have been boarded!”

  Section leaders started yelling at their men and the room was filled with disciplined chaos as soldiers equipped themselves. Lan crossed to his locker.

  His hand was raised in preparation as he pushed the door open but nothing happened.

  A wind billowed through the open door and the sudden banging jolted Lan's nerves. Slowly he inched forward, both hands now steadfastly clutching a makeshift weapon. His heart pounded, his breath was short and shallow, every fibre of his body was prepared for violence.

  He slipped quietly into the darkened room. Something fluttered on the periphery of Lan's vision. He turned towards the movement and as he did the banging came again. The window clattered to and fro in the gale, it's latch snapped in two, the curtain flapping with each gust. Lan let go his grip with his right hand and reached out to examine the worn clasp.

  “It's OK Nicola. It's just the window banging in the wind,”

  He heard Nicola behind him; her hand fell gently on his shoulder.

  A hand fell on Lan's shoulder, “Come on, Agstaff! Get moving!”

  “What?” for a moment Lan stood there pondering over the intrusion of the memory, “Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir?”

  It was so real he could almost have been back in Nicola's house confronting the imagined prowler.

  Lan let slip a sigh as the memory ebbed away.

  “Kill me, O my trustworthy friends, for in my killing is my life,” Jackson whispered to the empty cabin.

  It was part of an ancient prayer. At this moment he felt
the line apt. He'd never been an overtly religious man, he believed in God but had abandoned worship. He had tried to ignore the condemnation of his soul, but in the end there was little he could do but accept it. His gloved hand drifted over the console and with a firm push depressed the fire button.

  A panel separated from the skin of Lupus Alpha and slid out of sight. From the hull a steel tray ascended into the night sky, the missile launcher swung into position and initiated. At the base of each rocket an invisible jet of gas propelled them smoothly away from Lupus Alpha. They appeared to drift leisurely towards the powerless transport for a moment. Then, when they had passed their pre-programmed safety margin, the chemically powered jets ignited.

  The torpedoes rapidly accelerated, covering the distance to their target in seconds. The pack separated and slammed unhindered into the Coma Berenices' hull.

  There were no fireworks no shocking explosion. The darts simply ruptured the Coma Berenices skin burrowing inside like ticks. Unobstructed by the internal partitions and supports, each missile flew with impunity. They passed from port to starboard side with surgical precision to emerge bursting from the Coma Berenices hide, back out into space. Behind them, spewing from the gaping holes bled a mist of debris and oxygen. The torpedoes' courses had guided them away from the ship's engines and reactor with the intent of robbing the skiff of its air and killing everyone on board.

  Lan reached over to pull the uniform from its hanger. As he did, the deck shuddered and twisted tossing him across the cryogenics suite. He flew through the air and impacted against a cot. A sharp corner struck hard against his ribs and a surge of pain immersed his senses.

  Lan sank prostrate to the deck. He lay there and let the pain slowly recede. He tried to breathe in. As his diaphragm started to move, the ache in his side expanded and once more shrouded him in agony.

  Brief, sharp breaths overwrote the pain with the need for oxygen. He rolled over to try and ease his discomfort only to be jarred back into pain. He stopped screwing his eyes up against the discomfort and looked around for help. The jolt and subsequent writhing had taken him out of the suspended animation bay and into the corridor that serviced it. Back in the ward the troops and medics were trying to pick themselves up and get their bearings. Lan tried to call out but the pain in his side wouldn't let him draw a deep enough breath. Again he gasped, trying to draw attention to his plight. A breeze, too strong to have come from the maladroit air reprocessing, whispered over his face.