The bright lights hurt his eyes and his head spun from the drugs they had given him.
“I just came in,” Nasim giggled, drunk with the injections that had been spiked into him.
“Why? Who told you to come here?”
“My guide,” answered Nasim.
“Where is he?” demanded the interrogator.
“Right here,” he tried raising his bound arm to point.
He was puzzled as to why his body would not respond and looked down at it. He laughed when he remembered that he was secured to the chair. He waved his hand as best he could to signify the omnipotence of his companion.
“He's on the inside, right? A traitor,” surmised the interrogator.
“No. He's on the other side,” Nasim found these questions funny.
The interrogator was getting frustrated, “He's from the Terran Alliance?”
Nasim was puzzled by the question, “I don't know. I'd have to ask him.”
“Give me a straight answer,” the interrogator raised a hand to punish Nasim for his impertinence.
The door swung open into the interrogation room interrupting the blow.
“That's quite enough, Sergeant. You are dismissed,”
The soldier was startled by the officer's entry and slovenly came to attention.
As the Sergeant left the room the officer said, “I'll require a full report from you by eighteen hundred hours tonight. Is that clear? A full report.”
“Yes, Sir, but I was just...”
“That will be all. Dismissed, Sergeant,”
Kalim surveyed the room and was dismayed at the barbaric stupidity that had led to this youth being trussed up.
“Here, let me untie you,” he loosened the bonds, “I'm Kalim, what's your name?”
“Nasim.”
“Would you mind if we had a little chat?”
“Go ahead,” Nasim was drunkenly looking around the room.
“Some of the men I work for are upset that you came onto this base. They want me to find out why you did,” Kalim pulled up a chair and sat just in front of Nasim, “Can you tell me what brought you here?”
“My feet. I walked,” giggled Nasim.
“Walked from where,” asked Kalim.
“My village,” said Nasim matter of fact.
“Where is your village?”
“It's gone.”
Kalim leaned in closer to Nasim, “Gone? Gone where?”
“It hasn't gone anywhere, it's not anywhere any more.”
“Was it destroyed?”
“By the soldier with blue eyes,” Nasim paused and added in a drunken slur, “they came in flames from the sky.”
“Is that why you came here? To find the soldier who did that?”
“I followed him here. I watched where he went. I'm a bit thirsty, do you think I can have a drink?”
In tones mirroring Nasim's Kalim said, “Sure, I'll get you one in just a moment but do you think you could help me a little bit first?”
Nasim jiggled his head and grinned.
Kalim continued, “The man you followed, do you know where he is?”
Nasim's pupils dilated even further as he stared through the solid tabletop.
“He's walking into that building, the two men at the side fall down.”
Nasim's head jerked loosely upwards, “He's putting something in the ceiling?” he giggled at the absurdity, “He's opening the sliding doors and kneeling down. He stands back up.”
“The two men are standing up again?” Nasim paused as if trying to read the small print on an eye chart, “No, they just look like the two that fell down. He's walking downstairs.”
Suddenly Nasim's gaze shot skyward.
“I know,” he whispered rocking as if he were comforting a small child in his arms.
Nasim spoke to Kalim, “It's too soon for most of them. They talk but they won't listen.”
Kalim moved closer to ask whom, but before he could speak Nasim addressed him, “Vance is happy for Malek.”
An icy chill formed at the top of Kalim's spine and slowly crawled down.
“What?”
“You dropped his number on your way here.”
Kalim nervously rifled through his folder looking for the scrap of paper but to no avail.
Nasim closed his eyes and seemed to be preparing for sleep, “I have to go up and help them now.”
“Help whom?” Kalim could not explain the urgency in his voice or the uneasy mutterings in his stomach.
Nasim, in his drugged state, muttered something incomprehensible.
Kalim leaned forward, and shook him lightly by the shoulders, “What did you say?”
But Nasim had already drifted off.
Section 17
The air was thick with ozone. The loud clattering noise of machine-gun fire echoed in Speg's ears.
Now that it was safe to approach he jogged past the troops lying prone. Many of them were ready to let loose another volley and those still preparing would have done so by the time he reached Zinner.
The tall green trees of the forest ahead swayed gently set in motion by the frequent gusts of rain-laden wind.
Mud splashed up Speg's calves. The earth underfoot had been saturated by the deluge. His boots slapped into the rapidly forming quagmire.
“Sir!” Speg barked, feeling the cold wet droplets racing down his face and inevitably down his collar.
Zinner read the note produced from the relatively dry folds of Speg's waterproofs.
Splashes of rain plopped heavily onto the paper. The rain soaked into the soft white sheet, slowly depriving it of its weak rigidity. Gaping transparent spots materialised at the touch of the falling drops.
After digesting the contents Zinner called out to the troops waiting to open fire, “Continue with the target practice. Another magazine of groupings and then back to the barracks. Prepare your gear for an extended patrol.”
Speg felt the damp undesirable squelch of the water in his boots. With each step the liquid was systematically squeezed out and then sponged back into his socks.
There had been no time for Speg to change, things had moved quickly since the communiqué from Veruct. Zinner had called a council with their Waden Allies. Soaking wet, Speg stood in the briefing hall, water leeching from his hair and dribbling off his nose.
Orr and his men crowded around, suspicious of what Zinner had to say.
“Earth Alliance wants to destabilise the political power within the Neotran government,” Zinner informed the assembled insurgents.
Most of the men around him in the dark dank room were seasoned campaigners. They would need convincing that the Alliance plan would work, even before deciding if it were advantageous for them to help.
“In only a few days a Terran Alliance fleet will be making a consolidated attack against the ports on Greda, denying the last remaining Neotran government ships of their only safe harbour in this solar system. To coincide with the complete destruction of any kind of fleet resistance Garrison Command are ordering a series of high profile assaults. To facilitate its effectiveness we need your assistance.”
The Waden resistance fighters were unfazed by Zinner's statement. They had known that the aid the Terran Alliance had supplied would come at a price.
Zinner named that price, “President Onodera will be paying a visit to the Bor Memorial Hospital in Jala. With your support we can assassinate him.”
Shocked murmurs reverberated around the room.
Zinner raised his voice slightly to compensate for the increased noise level, “At the same time other Terran units will eliminate key figures in the rest of the Neotran government and armed forces. The resulting hierarchical chaos will greatly weaken the Neotran military capability. But we need your help getting in and out of Jala.”
“Why not just bomb the hospital from orbit?” a sceptic piped up.
“Earth,” Zinner explained, “needs to win not only the ground war but the war of propaganda. We can't be seen to targe
t civilian installations. Onodera and his staff know this, that's why they've relaxed and let slip the plans of this visit.”
“What do we get out of this?” asked Cope.
“Whatever you can take,” Zinner stepped back from the conference table, a deliberate sign that his part in this discussion was coming to an end, “With the armed forces effectively stunned, you can annex your own territory. By the time they can retaliate, you can be dug in, and once you are they won't have the manpower to fight a war on two fronts.”
Zinner glanced over the assembled soldiers. He had given them an opportunity it was now up to them to seize it.
Cope nodded his approval, “We'll need detailed plans of your campaign. We can't just commit our forces and be the only one at the party.”
“I'll arrange that,” answered Zinner.
Captain Orr, who had been listening intently, stood up and walked to the centre of the briefing hall. He was obviously upset and no longer cared to hold his peace.
“Captain Orr, what's the problem?” Cope asked sensing trouble.
“Can't you see?” Orr addressed his men, “They're using us to do their dirty work.”
“It serves both our purposes,” Zinner admitted.
“Earth gets the breather they need and we get to free the Motherland,” Cope agreed, “Hasn't that been our hope all along?”
“Yes, but not at the expense of selling out to imperialistic scum like him,” Orr pointed at Zinner, “Don't forget they enslaved us in the first place!”
“If we don't seize this opportunity it might be another hundred years before we break free!” argued Cope.
“What he's proposing is a change of tack. After this we would be fighting as an army instead of a guerrilla movement, the two are totally different. It's suicide. Earth will play us off against Neotra for its own ends and we can't hope to maintain a standing army,” Orr's disdain for the Terran Alliance blazed like a bonfire, “Remember who put us in this position in the first place!”
“We did,” Cope countered.
“What?” shocked by this answer Orr paused.
“If Waden had taken her own initiative from the start we could have held on to our autonomy. Look what happened at Borlin when the Alliance tried to re-colonise.”
Orr butted in, “Borlin was too far away to be viable.”
“Only because they made it too difficult. If we had fought back like they did on Borlin, maybe we wouldn't be fighting today. But we are fighting. If ...” Cope struggled to find the rhetoric he needed, “If a hundred and fifty years ago we had had the conviction to put up more of a resistance, what would have happened then?”
Cope looked around the room at the faces of his comrades, “What do we have to lose? If we win we free Waden, if we don't we keep on fighting like we have been. We have to grab hold of every chance we're offered or face the regrets of what might have been.”
Cope now fixed his gaze on Orr, “Captain, you're right about Earth's motives and you're right that we may not be able to defend our new fought freedom. But we have to take the chance.”
“Even if it means signing a pact with the devil?” countered Orr.
“I know you, Orr, we've fought side by side for longer than you'd care to recall and like me and every other Waden in this room you would sell your soul for a taste of that freedom!” Cope stepped back against the wall of the Ops' centre.
He had said all that he needed to say. Like a child his eyes were wide with excitement. The patriotism with which he preached caught the hearts and souls of his acrimonious colleagues.
Orr had a keen tactical mind that saw Zinner's plan for what it was.
He had his doubts, but as Cope had said, if the military might was insufficient for the job then guerrilla tactics would press home their message.
With his Lieutenants looking to him for his decision Orr turned to Zinner, “Waden must be set free, by whatever means. What's your plan?”
Section 18
Completing her trail through the heavens once every eleven Neotran years, Greda was far from the sun that nourished her sister world. Here the atmosphere was so cold that oxygen froze and fell like snow.
It's inhospitably would surely have warned off any visitors had she not been so rich.
From water to weapons grade plutonium, Greda was mined for the lot, she didn't just supply the raw materials for Neotra's economy, she exported to the rest of the Terran Alliance as well.
Smuggling from such a vast store of resources and precious metals was potentially a very lucrative endeavour.
To prevent such misdirection Greda resembled something like an armed camp. Her ports were home to the bulk of Neotras boarder craft, Greda was an ideal launch pad for the customs and early warning ships needed to police the rest of the star system.
There was minimal democracy, every decision being decreed from Neotra. So much so that a state of martial law, although not official, was effectively in place. That was even before the war took a grip of this precious, if not severe, outpost.
For all her harshness she was still a welcome sight to the crew of Lupus Beta.
Baxsell piloted his ship, last of the surviving Lupus squadron to make it back to Greda, into orbit. The rest of the squadron who had scuppered the Coma Berenices and escaped had arrived back weeks ago. They had received their welcome and were now engaged in new tasks.
When the Terran Alliance escorts attacked, Baxsell's escape route took his ship in the opposite direction from home. Once he had been sure they were not being pursued they had set a wide arcing course that would take them well clear of the wrecked Berenices.
Finally Lupus Beta had arrived home.
Coming into geosynchronous orbit over Janstown, Baxsell marvelled at the array of cruisers and battle ships being supplied or repaired.
The remnants of the Neotran fleet had taken refuge at this cold outpost. It had been weeks since their forced exodus from orbit around Neotra. As the last remaining protective zones had collapsed they had made their escape. It had been a bloody breakout. Each ship fleeing for its life hounded by the deadly packs of Terran hunter-killers. The last of these refugees had scattered to the outer planets, most finding their way to the shelter that Greda offered.
“Have you ever seen so many ships in the one place before?” Baxsell said to his co-pilot Khosla.
The ships hung there, hundreds of them like a vast shoal of fish. There were craft of all different designs and sizes. The majority were commercial ships, refugees or conscripts, but alongside them were the tattered remains of the Neotran Defence Fleet. Under strength squadrons of bombers, wings of agile but vulnerable fighter craft. A handful of light and heavy cruisers, most of which wore the scars of battle. But none of these war machines captured Baxsell's attention for long. Into view crept two massive battleships. These two monsters were whales dwarfing the shoals of other ships. The craft seemed so overwhelmingly huge that Baxsell thought nothing could harm them.
“Flight control to Lupus Beta. Move to the following orbital location. Co-ordinates being transmitted now. Please confirm receipt.”
“Yeah,” Captain Baxsell responded, “co-ordinates received, moving to a parking orbit.”
“Hold position there and await further instruction. And Lupus Beta keep your scanners active we've already had one fatal collision today.”
Flight control was vastly overstretched trying to manage a thousand more ships than they were used to. The workload had already passed breaking point. A tug had been placed in Molniya orbit at the wrong height. When it swung down over the equator it collided with a communications satellite killing its crew and destroying the satellite.
“When can we land on Greda?” Baxsell asked the flight controller.
“As yet there is no information on that matter,” the controller answered.
“Then will we able to dock with a space station or another ship?”
“As yet there is no information on that matter,” the controller answered.
> “What about some supplies, I mean the recycled water's not tasting like it ought,”
“As yet there is no information on that matter,” the controller answered.
To each of Baxsell's enquiries the answer was the same. The controller's voice was calm and monotonous. Robotically she answered with the same replies.
“You can't tell me if we're going to get fresh supplies. You don't know when my crew can leave the ship. The only thing you've told me is we can't land!”
“That's correct Captain. Thank you for your assistance...” and the line was terminated.
“Aah, fuckin' bitch!” Baxsell smashed his fists on the console sending tremors across it.
A short haul vessel designed for two men and one week's off-world flight did not harbour the best psychological conditions for a four month escape-and-evade manoeuvre.
“Battering the fucking thing ain't gonna do no good!” Khosla's voice strained with frustration as he chastised his Captain.
“It's my bloody console, I can do what I like to the fuckin' thing!” A second pounding shook the panel.
As his fist struck the screen jumped into life.
The figure on screen wore a light grey naval uniform with a headset common to communications staff.
“Captain Noah Baxsell?” enquired the junior officer.
Baxsell, who was still shocked by the success of his wrath, stuttered out an affirmative. Khosla moved in closer for a better view.
“This is the N.S.V. Dominion. Can you confirm your current status?” A list started printing off on an adjacent screen.
Baxsell scanned through the itinerary, a duplicate of the information painstakingly drawn out by flight control.
“Yeah, that's all up to date.”
“Rendezvous with the Reverence in one hour for supply and equipment. You will be briefed on your arrival. Are there any questions, Captain?”
There were, but Baxsell was still too stunned to ask.
“That don't sound too good,” Khosla threw in.
For the first time in a month Baxsell could agree with his co-pilot.
From the Torment of Dreams Page 12
