From the Torment of Dreams

by Iain McKinnon

  Impelled by the wind, a fluorescent marker trundled passed Lan down the passageway. As it gathered speed its leading edge clipped the decking and bounded into the air. Bouncing down the corridor each skip grew longer as the artificial gravity dissipated.

  The draught grew in intensity. Small pieces of litter were gathering momentum now and rushing past the fixtures in the corridor. Lan, felt himself starting to move and clutched onto a conduit. He could feel the tug of the air current eagerly testing his grip. Lan's eyes widened with realisation.

  Back in the medical bay no one seemed to notice as they scrambled to arm themselves. Lan tried to shout out a warning but as his chest rose for the call his ribs grated together and his lungs retched out what air they held.

  The wind whipped at Lan's tears of pain. Gingerly Lan uncurled from the foetal position. Arm held tight against his shattered ribs he heaved himself to his knees.

  Fighting the pain and the furious rush of wind, Lan clambered down the hallway towards the escape pods.

  As he hauled himself down the corridor something dawned on him, “If this is the result of a hull breach, what will I find first a life raft or a gaping hole?”

  Lan had no way of knowing where the damage was; all he could do was hope that he reached an escape pod before being sucked out into space.

  The wind was becoming too strong. His grip was weakening from the exertion and he struggled to hang on.

  Larger bits of refuse began to be sucked down the corridor accompanied by the deafening roar of rushing air. A fragment of steel hurtled towards Lan. The scrap of ship's superstructure whirled uncontrollably, its edges fractured to razor sharp points.

  The metal skipped off the wall of the corridor and impacted with Lan's shoulder, biting deep.

  Lan screeched profanities at the throbbing gash only to have his breath snatched away by the rasping bones. Flinching from the pain Lans muscles contracted. The tempest tore at his weakened grasp, yanking it from him. The escaping air swept him along, as it rushed towards a hole in the side of the ship. A crimson stream welled from around the embedded metal and sprayed off into the air. Again paralysed by agony Lan's mind struggled for control. Flying down the corridor he bounced from one wall to the next, battering his body further. Buffeted around a corner he glimpsed a sign. Lan lashed out and grabbed at a passing doorway. The door frame caught him square in the midriff, punching the breath from him. There was an audible crack as the impact exacerbated his already injured ribcage. Lan tried to howl in pain but his deflated lungs could only manage a gasp.

  Opening his eyes he attempted to focus both his sight and his intent. Tears blurred his vision and were whipped from his face by the wind. He lay across the door jam trying to still his breath and regain control. His chest felt like shattered glass. The pain slowly started to abate, and as soon as he could move he started pulling himself back up towards the sign he had passed. The crawl forward was arduous, every time he raised his arms to heave himself forward the ragged ends of his broken ribs grated together. A warm, thick flow of blood trickled down his arm as he dragged himself onwards through the dying wind. The distance he had to cover was only a few metres, but the pain and the wind and the clumsy movements in zero gravity turned it into a marathon.

  The wind stopped.

  Lan felt a loud popping in his ears as the last of the oxygen drained from the stricken vessel. He held his breath fearing that his lungs would be ripped from him in the vacuum. With all the urgent strength he could muster Lan lunged the last three metres to the door ahead.

  The sign read, “Emergency Evacuation Vehicle: Warning, Authorised Use Only.”

  Lan seized the crank and furiously turned the wheel. His jaws clamped together, the muscles in his face taut in spasm against the pain. Each twist sheared the ragged edges of his ribs together. His raw lungs squeezed out every last gasp of oxygen they contained. They cried out at him, begging for a breath, but he dared not give in.

  Finally the seals gave and the escape pod's heavy safety door opened. Warm rivulets of red liquid streamed off behind him, tumbling away in the weightlessness, as he pulled himself inside. Still holding his breath and trailing blood he slammed the pressure seal shut behind him. The room began to swim. He was suffocating as his lungs burned dry of oxygen. But he dared not breathe in the airless escape pod.

  Lan's vision started to close in. Fighting against the encroaching blackness he saw a valve marked “Compressed Air”. With a drunken lurch he grabbed for the nozzle. His willpower strained against the instinct to breathe. His lungs screamed for air. Lan's conscious mind knew that there was no air to sustain him but his physical need could stay suppressed no longer. Unable to prevent himself, Lan let forth the flood of stale air from his tortured lungs. His diaphragm pulled down expecting to suck in life giving air only to choke down emptiness. His lungs spasmed trying to clutch hold of a few drops of oxygen. Gulping uncontrollably Lan clutched the head of the valve and threw it open, collapsing by its nozzle.

  Section 3

  The stars were bright and peaceful. The rear of the drop platform swivelled round bringing the white-clad drop squad directly over the planet. Their suits were large and ungainly. Even in zero gravity they appeared awkward, moving like exhausted turtles struggling across wet sand.

  Beneath them the world spun silently as it had for aeons, oblivious to the actions of man. A bright ray of light leapt over the horizon heralding dawn on the continent below. From orbit, the rising sun Asellus was blinding, bringing a blaze of colour.

  Rulk watched in awe of the natural splendour. As the brilliant white light illuminated a fingernail crescent of the world below. From his place at the front of the line he was afforded the best view of the sunrise creeping across the planet.

  Warm blue oceans, burnt ochre desserts, the fertile green of plain and jungle, all smattered with the swirl of white clouds. Neotra was stunning.

  The light from Asellus wasn't as yellow as the sun back home. It made everything look crisp and colder than he would have expected but it was still beautiful.

  So beautiful that it almost drowned out his zero-G nausea.

  Being weightless was a shock on all but the strongest of stomachs. The pressurised suit added to Rulk's discomfort. Instead of breathing in air the high pressure meant that air was forced into his lungs and expelled only when forced out; in effect breathing in reverse. It was a strain on his diaphragm that served only to heighten his nausea.

  This was the part he hated most, waiting for the jump signal. With every minute that passed the body became more accustomed to bobbing around with no up or down, but it was still an unpleasant sensation in Rulk's opinion.

  Most of the white clad soldiers paid no attention to the wondrous beauty in front of them, least of all Zinner.

  Rulk knew his new commander could never appreciate the scene as he could. Zinner's eyes, he'd been told, only had a third of the colour receptors normal humans had.

  “He's not only got extra rods for night vision but his eyes are infra red sensitive allowing him to see heat,” Rulk had been told by one of the other new recruits, “They say he's almost colour blind, sees just enough colour not to make a mistake when choosing camouflage.”

  Rulk could only guess at what Zinner saw when he looked down.

  These men were the legendary Bavashee, the cream of Terra's troops, and this was Rulk's first mission.

  Rulk had trained, studied and fought hard to be admitted into their ranks. Even though he had earned the right to be here he was still apprehensive.

  That nervousness had not been eased by the presence of a Legacy.

  He recalled being surprised when he first saw Zinner. He wasn't the titan that the myths had portrayed. He was tall and well built, but not the giant he'd been led to believe. Rulk and the other six new recruits had had little time for training with these paragons before, their first deployment. They were thrown in at the deep end because of the suddenness of the war. That wasn't to say that Rulk and his f
ellow replacements were sub-standard, they were all seasoned veterans. Each one had endured rigorous testing to earn their position, but in light of the current crises the selection was not as stringent as it once had been.

  The Bavashee were used to having their pick of the best and only the best. To a regiment of such prestige anything less was an insult.

  Rulk knew that he and the other replacements would be under intense scrutiny.

  Zinner raised a hand high above his head and held it there static, “Twenty seconds till drop. Check suit diagnostics.”

  “Computer,” Rulk commanded, “Run pre-jump system check,”

  A graphical representation of Rulk's amour encased body appeared on the heads-up display. A soft bleep and a green wash indicated secured systems. The green hue spread over Rulk's icon with the dulcet harmony of compliance.

  “Systems operation within tolerance,” the computer's tranquil voice informed him.

  “Jump in...” Zinner paused, “...Five, Four, Three, Two, One.”

  Zinner's fist cut down sharply. Rulk's suit let out a burst of gas that propelled him off the platform and away from its cradling safety. Into open space he flew towards the planet below. Behind him, row after row of men surged forward following him down, but Rulk felt isolated. Out here, without the security of something to hold onto it was easy for troopers to get disorientated and panic. The wrong burst of propellant could make you a permanent fixture in orbit.

  Rulk watched his heads up display to take his mind off his dread and concentrate on the free fall. The screen showed his position and in round green blobs he could see the rest of the squad forming up behind him. One green dot raced up and over took him. Through the tinted visor of his helmet he could see his commander moving to take the lead.

  The green blobs formed a “V” in free fall and plummeted downwards into the atmosphere. Rulk instinctively crossed his arms and legs. Tucked in tight behind his shield he turned round to face away from the planet, letting the hardened shell on his back bear the inferno of re-entry.

  Rulk peered past his comrades to get his last clear vista of the lucid stars.

  At the point of the “V”, Captain Carl Zinner watched the armour of his team glowing red-hot. As they fell the shields became white with heat. One man's shield dimmed, the friction heat dulling to a fiery red.

  “Where's that heat dissipating to?” Zinner looked round to see if any of his other soldiers shields had started to cool down.

  “Sir my liquid nitrogen feed has failed.” came the nervous reply.

  “Crossan break formation.” Zinner ordered

  “Crossan get tight behind me.” Rulk buzzed in, “If you ride in my wake it will reduce the friction.”

  “I’m losing attitude control,” Crossan reported.

  “Crossan break formation,” Zinner ordered again.

  “My shield is failing!” Crossan screamed.

  “Break formation if you burn up the shrapnel could wipe out half my squad!” Zinner commanded.

  The roaring red furnace of Crossan's heat shield flashed white for an instance like it had been struck by lighting and then split in two.

  The separate pieces of re-entry shell bucked and tumbled before splitting still further in a shower of sparks.

  “Watch your vectors,” Zinner radioed his team as he watched the hazardous fireballs splay off.

  Within seconds the fireball that was Crossan had careered harmlessness away from the rest of the squad.

  “All units status report by the numbers.” Zinner ordered.

  Reflected inside his visor came the up dated information from his squad. He checked it off in his mind, other than the loss of Crossan the rest of this men were unscaved.

  “Just one of the newbies,” thought Zinner, “He obviously didn't check his heat shield adequately.”

  Zinner could imagine Crossans dying screams in his mind but all he felt was dismay at the soldiers incompetence. This one mans inexperience could have derailed the whole mission. Zinner wondered how many more of his new men would prove to be a liability.

  “If the replacement soldiers can't even maintain their equipment what will they be like on the mission?” It was a major concern to Zinner, and one he would have to allay.

  Zinner recognised the LZ growing larger beneath him. The small village had been chosen because it was the only landing zone in radar shadow within forty Kliks.

  Rulk tried to spot any sign of his fellow recruit but the dancing flames lapping around the lip of his heatsheild revealing nothing of the sky beyond. The crucible of re-entry would have taken Crossan’s life in an instance and in all likelihood all that was left of the man was vapour. The only bond the two men shared was that they had both joined the unit on the same day. In the weeks they had been in the Bavahshee he could hardly say he’d come to know him. Regardless though Rulk whispered a short prayer at his passing.

  The plasma licking round Rulk's shield dampened and fizzled out allowing patches of bright, azure, morning sky to break through. Smoke was still trailing from the crisped shell when the deceleration chutes sprang free.

  Rulk was thumped hard from the jerk of the deployment. The small drogue parachutes hardly slowed the descent but they stabilized the unaerodynamic drop armour in free fall. The altimeter bleeped inside his helmet and the shell, blackened from its ordeal, was shot away. The discarded casings drifted downwards in surreal slow motion. The deceleration chutes only made a few Kliks difference to their free fall velocity but it was enough to get clear of the redundant shields.

  Now that the protective sheath was discarded the rest of the troop looked less ungainly. Although the heat shields had taken the bulk of the punishment on the way down, underneath there were dark smudges. The fabric of their armour was scorched and tarnished in places from the violent heat of re-entry. Rulk looked round to see the familiar scorch halo down his shoulders, flank and legs.

  Twisting his body to face the approaching ground Rulk checked his chronometer and altimeter. Timing was crucial. They had to open their descent gliders at the last second to minimise drop vulnerability. Opening the wings increased the surface area and would make the team visible to ground radar. The longer in free-fall, the less likely detection would be. The longer in free-fall, the closer the ground, would be before they started to decelerate. If their satellite reconnaissance were out they would hit the ground before the glider wings opened. The protective armour was harder than toughened steel and might withstand impacting with the ground but Rulk knew the occupant would be turned to purée.

  The high, rocky mountains of the Alak ridge were cold and crisp. Clouds clung to the lower slopes drenching the forests with moisture. In the distance the bright golden dawn washed over the sky smoothing away the dark blanket of night.

  A cock crow pierced the damp calm of morning.

  Slowly the village came to life; people going about the every day work of their lives. This was a simple settlement, a way of life untouched since before the Armageddon Wars. The clump of wooden huts looked random and unorganised. In a smattering of corrals clustered near the dwellings livestock, mainly sheep and goats, were stirring, eager for their morning feed. Terraced fields full of crops swept down from the village looking like steps for some mythical giant.

  This could have been a scene from almost any time in man's history. In spite of his mastery of his surroundings, from the colonization of planets to the control of atoms these people still lived a primitive existence.

  The few metal tools these aboriginal people used were won through bartering with surrounding villages.

  Thousands of years after mankind's first space flight a pastoral existence was still the mainstay of humanity.

  Nasim rocked gently, swaying in a non-existent breeze. His naked body collected droplets of condensation as the steam clung to him. He sat cross-legged, sweat-drenched, dark hair matted around dusky brown features. His hazel eyes could be glimpsed behind his flickering eyelids. The lay he sat in was no more than
a pit covered by a roof of tree bark. There was a dirt oven hollowed into one side where rocks were being heated before being plunged into a tub of cold water.

  It was here in this traditionally built dugout that Nasim came for his visions. His mind could rise like the steam, swirling around forming patterns. Finally his thoughts would condense like the thick droplets.

  The images held themselves simultaneously in nothingness and in clarity flitting between comprehension and confusion.

  His perception flowed, pouring like warm water, so many answers but no questions.

  He stood on a mountaintop surrounded by a sea of clouds and as he looked up in his dreaming he saw stars.

  The stars fell earthward. They formed a wedge as they flew and at the tip of which there shone a black star. It twinkled like the stars that followed but this one was as black as a crows wings.

  His consciousness was held in a stare, focused on everything and looking straight through it.

  The black star drew closer and closer still. Nasim found himself transfixed by the black glistening. Unable to flee he stood in its path, breath held, eyes wide open. The dark blaze flew straight at him expanding as if to engulf him.

  With a furious rush the black star collided with him.

  An ebony shadow drenched his soul filling him with a torturous emptiness.

  “I am a man of honour,” keen blue eyes focused on him.

  Nasim awoke with a jolt.

  The armour-clad soldier jogged up to his commander. His movements were agile even in the bulky suit but that was due to the built-in servos. The white exterior had transformed itself into a pattern of dull browns and greens. The colours blended well against the backdrop of the austere village.