From the Torment of Dreams

by Iain McKinnon

  “Yes, you are shit,” Keir laughed from behind, “OK, everyone gather round.”

  Nasim and Lan stood up from where they were playing dead. Gathered about their instructor, rubbing their numb arms, they watched the empty wood for any sign of their executioner. A clump of ferns shimmered and rose up. The man concealed within the suit of foliage walked over to the assembled trainees. Through the grime and shadow of camouflage paint an expansive grin exposed a set of gleaming white teeth.

  “Gentlemen,” Sergeant Ramage said obviously pleased with his performance.

  Keir took a stick and started to draw out what went wrong in a patch of sandy earth, “Cover each other, as one man moves up the other two cover him. Pick objects to hide behind, preferably something like a tree which might stop a bullet or failing that, camouflage you at the very least.”

  Unlike Ramage's school of hard knocks and learn by pain approach, Keir was more like an older brother looking out for his siblings, “When you have a target work the angle on it. One of you firing from the left, the other from the right. That means that your firing arcs cut down the area the enemy has to manoeuvre until finally there's no more cover to hide behind.”

  Because of their resounding defeat Keir drilled them for an hour, pointing out what they could have done.

  Keir's analysis finished on a deeply sombre note, “Make your mistakes here and learn from them because when we do this for real your first mistake will be your last.”

  “Let's go again,” Keir clapped his hands together to rouse them, “This time stay in visual contact as well as radio.”

  Again the three took to the field of combat and waited for the signal to go.

  Nasim turned to Jackson, “Would you like to cut this short?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Jackson.

  “Cover me and I'll find him,” said Nasim.

  Keir's voice boomed from the edge of the field, “Go!”

  “How?” Jackson said to Nasim but there was no reply.

  Jackson whipped round expecting to see Nasim faking death. Instead, what he saw was the youth sitting behind a tree looking as if he were asleep.

  Nasim's eyes shot open, “Forty metres ahead to the north east.”

  “Where? I can't see him,” said Lan.

  “Follow my trace,” Nasim's gun barked as he laid down fire into a clump of bushes.

  “OK, why not,” Jackson shouted above the noise and started firing and moving towards the point Nasim had picked out.

  Jackson and Nasim closed in on the clump of foliage dodging from cover to cover, firing a deafening barrage as they moved.

  “Lan keep low!” Jackson called over but Lan marched straight towards the target firing as he went.

  Paying no heed to his comrades Lan focused on the thicket Nasim had pointed out. The gun in his hand barked over and over as he exhausted his clip. The gun clicked as the ammo ran dry.

  “I'll cover you,” Jackson yelled seeing his comrade reloading.

  But Lan didn't stop. Casually he discarded the spent magazine and in the same smooth action rammed home a fresh one. As soon as the magazine was in place Lan started firing again. Not once did his gaze leave the target ahead, not once did he pause.

  The bushes ahead shuddered and Keir's voice cut in over their radios, “Exercise over. Come back.”

  Jackson and Nasim stood up from their cover but Lan kept striding forward.

  Shot after shot pierced the woodland and from the thicket came a string of curses.

  “Lan, stand down!” Keir shouted above the noise of the gunfire.

  Lan peered over the bush down at the convulsing Ramage.

  “Click!” the magazine ran dry.

  Like a robot Lan automatically dumped the second spent magazine and fished out a fresh one from his battle pack.

  The odour of singed skin broke through the aroma of cordite exhaust and Lan froze with the new magazine in hand.

  “Are you deaf, Agstaff! Stand down!” Keir pushed past Jackson and Nasim as he marched up to Lan.

  Ramage's white teeth flashed at Lan but this time in a grimace. Violently the instructor hurled away his mock rifle and leapt to his feet.

  Keir pushed in between Lan and Ramage, “Right, hand in your weapons and hit the assault course, were finished here for the day.”

  The haze over Lan's vision drifted clear as the adrenaline subsided.

  “Ramage, over here!” Keir pulled the furious sergeant away from Lan.

  “Drop it, Ramage!” Keir ordered once they were out of earshot of the trainees.

  “That little bastard kept shooting at me!” Ramage scowled as he flexed his arm trying to shake off the pain.

  “That’s what they’re training for and you're not the most popular instructor on base, you know how these things can blow up.”

  “I could’ve swung for the little shit!”

  “I know but you'd have been way out of line. Now calm down and get over it.”

  “Did you get a look at his eyes,” Ramage's voice was more chilled than angry.

  “No?”

  “He was gone, the red haze had descended and he was kill crazy!”

  “That's what we're training them for Ramage...”

  “No, this was different this wasn't fighting spirit. You'd better keep an eye on him he's going to blow and when he does we best not be near him.”

  Section 30

  Communication buoy number three sprang into life, the Neotran bomber that transmitted to it had dumped this chunk of hardware a day earlier. It adjusted itself and fired a narrow beam back towards Greda. It would take some eight minutes for its data to reach the planet. By the time the transmission reached the receiving base the fight would be over.

  The relay passed on the information of the squadron's attack. Due to the success of the Terran defences, raids were often one-way tickets and the buoy was the only way to ensure the transmissions got through.

  Neotran high command saw these raids as a valuable use of resources and so the convoy was being hit hard. Even with the convoys defences one of the freighters, the Novatian Disciple had lost an engine and had slowed the procession to a crawl. The reduction in speed meant that Greda could launch more raids.

  As the bombers in the latest attack deployed, they dispatched a binary flood of information. Thick gaps in the information appeared as the programs failed to compensate for the Terran jamming.

  Mixed in with the screeching machine code was an audio commentary from the cockpit.

  “Heavy flack,” came the voice of the unidentified pilot.

  His companion cut in, “Convoy thirty seconds and closing.”

  “Open missile bay doors. Launch on my mark,” ordered the pilot.

  “Twenty seconds,” came the navigator's voice.

  A gap in the transmission masked a few seconds of terror and profanities then the navigator's voice came through again, “Hull breach, aft compartment. Internal sensors are out. Air pressure is dropping.”

  He shouted to be heard over the noise of the cockpit, “Ten seconds.”

  “Mark!” screamed the pilot.

  There was a second interruption caused by the missiles firing.

  “Breaking off. Moving to regroup position,” said the pilot.

  “We have incoming projectiles...” the navigator was cut off by another thick gap of static. The crackling subsided and the last words of his sentence came through.

  “...firmed hit!” his voice carried a tone of jubilation, “Multiple detonations on the Novatian Disciple. We must have ignited her fuel core,”

  His excitement and celebration spilled over as he reported to the pilot, “Yes! The explosion has taken out the Terran ship next to it! Looks like the supply skiff Dhakos. They're both breaking up!”

  “Shit we're too close,” the pilot's voice broke in, “the debris is overtaking us!”

  “Debris impact in ten seconds!” confirmed the navigator.

  “The thrusters must have taken flack, they'
re sluggish. Give me power!” the pilot screamed as he fought with the controls.

  “The explosion's corona will overtake us in five seconds,” said the navigator.

  “Four,” continued the countdown.

  The pilot pleaded with his craft, “Come on! Come on! More power!”

  “Three,” the navigator came through again.

  “Come on! You've got to make it!” the pilot coaxed his ship.

  “Two.”

  It became obvious that the ailing ship was not going to muster enough speed.

  “Ah shit!” the pilot gasped.

  “One!” screamed the navigator.

  There was yet another break in the link with communications buoy three.

  When the on board commentary returned it was muffled by a sound like rushing water.

  “...eding tolerance,” shouted the pilot to be heard over the rumbling din that crowded out his words.

  The navigator shouted back, “Hull integrity is fa...”

  Abruptly, before he could finish, the transmission stopped.

  General Weston looked up from listening to the recording, “And you're sure Greda got this?”

  “The data was secured from the communications buoy mentioned in the account,” answered Revar.

  “And the Neotrans have no idea we had transferred all the crew and equipment off those two ships?” Weston quizzed.

  “Nothing can be one hundred percent certain but there were no Neotran craft present when they shuttled the crew over to the other ships and although our intelligence is limited on Greda there have been no direct reports or even signs that they suspect our subterfuge,”

  “Nice work, Colonel,” the General's mood was greatly lifted, “Given a dozen more like you and we'd have finished this war by now.”

  “Ah, I need to correct you there General, High Command have classed this as a conflict not a war,” Revar released a smile from his normally serious lips. He felt it was appropriate to cover up his embarrassment at Weston's compliment and to confirm that he was only joking.

  “Yes, you have a point, Revar,” Weston swivelled round in his chair and opened a cabinet behind his desk. With the clink of glasses he brought out two crystal goblets and a bottle. The rich mahogany contents swilled around behind a faded label.

  “Not exactly appropriate,” he nodded at the goblets, “But better than coffee mugs.”

  Weston cracked open the metal seal and poured a healthy measure into both glasses.

  “There was a sea-faring people on Earth before the days of space flight,” said Weston passing a glass to Revar, “When they invaded a new land they would burn the boats they had come in. Surrender would mean death and they could not retreat with the sea at their backs, so they had no choice but to fight to the last man.

  “Will you join me in toasting our success?” Weston raised his goblet in salute, “After all it would be sheer gluttony to empty this bottle alone.”

  “You won't find the answer in a bottle of drink,” Revar picked up his glass, “but you might forget the question.”

  “That was completely out of character for you, Revar. What's more I think I liked it! Here's to the questions. May we avoid them at least 'til morning!”

  Revar held his glass aloft, “To the boats we have burned. May we never need them.”

  Section 31

  They had made it back to their dormitory. There hadn't been a day yet where they didn't feel that they would die of exhaustion.

  “Right, I'm getting cleaned up before I go to bed,” Lan discarded the last of his clothes and snatched up a towel as he strolled off in the direction of the showers. The tops of his shoulders bore red welts where the weight of his backpack had chaffed his skin.

  Jackson went to rub away the stiffness in his neck but the pain of the raw sores made him stop.

  “That thing you did when you found Sergeant Ramage in the undergrowth. How do you do that?” asked Jackson

  “I just looked for his aura,” said Nasim, matter of fact.

  “When you say you looked for his aura, how do you see it?”

  “Felt it.”

  “You felt it? You don't think you could show me how to do it?”

  “If you're really interested I could teach you, but it does take a lot of discipline.”

  “Yeah, I am interested. When do we start?”

  “You just have. Now if you'll excuse me I need to get rid of these,” Nasim looked at the marks cut into his skin by his pack’s shoulder straps.

  “Sure,” said Jackson. He peeled off his dirty clothes and picked up his wash bag.

  The hot water cascaded off Lan's fatigued body. It was soothing and relaxing. He closed his eyes and let the warm water run off his head onto his face.

  His soap-laden hands ran down from her shoulders. Undulating over her clavicle and onto the soft plush tissue of her breasts. His hands circled her bust gently brushing her nipples.

  Smoothing away the wet hair that brushed her shoulder he kissed her neck. She broke the hold Lan had around her waist and turned to kiss him.

  Clumsily Nicola's hand found its way to Lan's crotch and massaged his penis roughly. They were both breathing heavily, gulping kisses. Lan wrapped an arm around her shoulder and held her tight. His right hand worked its way down between Nicola's legs.

  “You OK?”

  “What?” Lan asked.

  “You OK?” Keir asked again.

  “Yeah... sure,” Lan stuttered breaking loose from his hallucination.

  “You looked like you were about to pass out.”

  “I'm fine, I just keep getting these...” he paused and thought better of it.

  “Ah it's nothing, just a bit tired that's all,” Lan picked up his towel and started drying himself off.

  “You can't be that tired!”

  Lan glanced up at Keir who was looking at his erect member.

  “Ah...” Lan was interrupted before he could say a word in his defence.

  “No need to explain. When I was your age I was forever disappearing off to the little boys' room. It's perfectly natural. But if I ever catch you doing it in my bunk I'll cut it off!”

  “It wasn't...”

  Keir spoke over the top of him, “That's why I came round. What with the war and all I haven't been for a night on the town in God knows how long. I've spoken to the base commander, to see if we can't get some R&R organised. You up for it?”

  He looked back at Lan enquiringly, “Bad choice of words. I mean do you fancy getting out a bit?”

  “Yeah sure,” said Lan.

  “I know exactly which bit you'll be getting out!” Keir joked.

  Section 32

  “Permission to speak, Sir,” Zinner snapped to attention.

  Weston looked around at Zinner's assembled troops and then back at Zinner's cruel blue eyes, “Permission denied.”

  Weston leant forward and spoke softly, “I know what you're going to say and this is not the time or the place. Schedule it with Colonel Revar.”

  Weston stepped onto the podium and surveyed the gathered soldiers, “The commendations won by the Bavashee over the course of this conflict are recognition of your outstanding courage and professionalism.”

  The newly issued medals sparkled with the morning light causing glints to distract Weston's eye. He focused on his speech and continued with only the briefest of pauses.

  “Your contribution has been greater and more profound than any other single unit.” Weston lowered the tone of his voice, “But your triumph has not been without sacrifice. Let us observe a moments silence to reflect on those who could not be with us.”

  Weston bowed his head and clasped his hands in prayer.

  Many of the soldiers did the same or simply closed their eyes. Even Zinner dipped his head, but for him it wasn't out of compassion for lost comrades. The loss of a soldier was often tragic but some of those names on the posthumous honours list had died through their own negligence. For them Zinner held only contempt. Men Like Rul
k should not be held in the same regard as men like Speg. But Zinner had learned that he had to feign empathy for all his lost soldiers or risk alienating those left under his command. If they were too busy fighting their commanding officer they would be useless at fighting the enemy.

  In this moment's silence Zinner's memory drifted back to the old days. A time where there were no men in the Bavashee, only Zinner's kind, a time where you didn't need to fake emotion to be a soldier.

  “Atten-hut!” Colonel Revar's voice intruded on the quiet.

  The crisp stamp of boots on tarmac echoed around the parade ground.

  “Dismissed,” Weston stepped down from the podium and made his exit.

  “Sir,” Zinner walked along side him.

  “Captain Zinner,” Revar chastised, “I believe the General made it quite clear...”

  “That's OK, Colonel,” Weston held up a hand to his adjutant and stopped, “Alright Captain let's hear it. It's obviously too important to wait.”

  “General, why have we been assigned to guard duty here at Veruct, that's the navy's role.”

  “You're not being downgraded if that's what you think, Captain.”

  “Sir, the Bavashee should be deployed in the field, not sitting around checking I.D. badges.”

  “Captain I don't much like your tone. It sounds to me like you're questioning my orders.”

  “No, Sir,” Zinner replied a little too quickly to sound sincere.

  “Now I've got a lot of patience when it comes to Legacys. Unlike some commanders I do not underestimate your worth, but your company needs time to rest and recuperate.”

  “With all due respect, Sir...”

  “Don't bullshit me,” Weston barked, “Not one of your boys would say so but they need this break even if you don't. This is about you getting back into the action. I've read the evaluations, seen the histories, you're designed to be out there in the thick of it.”

  Weston reached out a hand and placed it firmly on Zinner's shoulder.

  “But your men,” He smiled and gently shook his head, “They're loyal and they respect you. God knows they should. You're the best field commander I've got, but let them catch their breath.”