“You’re needed,” Tremblay said superiorly, but the lancer-turned-gunner only blinked. Tremblay suddenly remembered where he had seen this lancer before. “You backed Bogart up in a brawl even though you didn't know him, and as disgraceful as that was, it shows you can keep a secret,” the Intelligence Officer said.
The native just stared at him as if he were a side of beef in which he was trying to decide how big a cut to make. “Why would I do anything you say?” the Tracto-an sounded genuinely curious.
“Heirophant, right?” said Tremblay, even though he knew the man’s name from the results of the DNA scan he had performed in the Brig.
The lancer gave the barest hint of a shoulder lift in acknowledgement.
“One name, right; that’s how most of your people roll,” Tremblay acknowledged, try to build a rapport and put the other man at ease.
“Bogart,” the hulking Tracto-an said.
“What?” demanded Tremblay, annoyed at the interruption.
“It is a fine name. A strong, fighting name, don't you think,” said the Lancer.
“It’s a thick-headed royalist name,” Tremblay replied scornfully before realizing that might not be the most politic answer for the man he was pretending to be. He pasted on a smile and nodded. “Certainly no one ever said the Chief Gunner ever ran away from a fight though,” which was the only good thing that came to mind he could say about the old, dunderheaded, cigar-smoking royalist.
Heirophant nodded in appreciation, “My name is Heirophant Bogart,” the Tracto native informed him with pride.
“I understand you guys can change your names at the drop of a hat, but naming yourself after that old bull,” Tremblay shook his head in disgust.
Tremblay's head was in mid-shake when the former lancer rolled toward him and lunged. The former First Officer instinctively lurched back, but not soon enough. A pair of vice-like hands closed around his neck and dragged him back to the wall, which the Lancer had been leaning against. “I gave you fair warning,” the Tracto-an hissed in his ear.
“The Admiral needs your help,” Tremblay gurgled.
“What?” the Tracto-an's voice rasped like sandpaper as he pushed Tremblay to the floor, pinning an arm and both legs with one of his own, “I don’t understand your language so good sometimes.”
“The Admiral,” Tremblay wheezed, “your Warlord.”
“What about him,” the former Lancer said, relaxing his grip just enough that Tremblay could almost breathe adequately.
“There’s a man who almost killed him since he’s been a prisoner,” Tremblay gasped.
“Go on,” hissed the newly-named Heirophant Bogart.
“The same man is going to try again. He doesn’t care what the new ship Leadership says, and he’s already killed who knows how many of the old crew. He’s too powerful for them to stop, so 'we' have to do it,” Tremblay gurgled as the other man’s nostrils flared, and his vice-like grip tightened slightly.
“Who is this man, and how can I kill him,” growled the native warrior, who then grimaced and pointed to one of his legs. It was sticking at an odd angle.
“When the time comes, I’ll make sure the door is unlocked,” he explained, reaching down to his pants’ leg and producing a pair of plastic tubes wrapped in cloth. “You can use these.”
“A leg brace?” Heirophant scowled.
“When the time is right, you’ll hear a buzz and the door will be unlocked; do what you have to do and save the Admiral,” said Tremblay with as much of a plea in his voice as he thought he could get away with. With a trembling hand, he reached into his pocket and produced a data slate.
Activating it, he showed the lancer an image of the Morale Officer, and then flipped to his Assistant.
“If you can kill both men and drag them into the Admiral’s cell before the guards notice anything’s wrong, there might be a way to get you out of here,” Tremblay continued after Heirophant had taken a good look at the images.
“World of Men, but you Starborn are obsessed with running away,” the native scowled.
“There’s nothing wrong with living,” Tremblay shot back indignantly.
“We escape with the Admiral,” Heirophant demanded, and when Tremblay shook his head, the hands around his neck tightened, “we escape with the Admiral,” the brute repeated forcefully.
“There’s nowhere to go,” Tremblay wheezed, “You, they might miss. I could report the Morale Officer killed you and log it in the system then hide you with a couple of other loyalists.” The former lancer’s hands were tight and unrelenting, causing Tremblay to speak more rapidly, “But the Admiral…they’d want to see the body. If we said he was thrown into the waste recycler, they’d tear this ship apart, just to make sure. There is no possible way he wouldn't be caught.”
“We can depart ship in battle-suits,” Heirophant said in a dangerous voice, “then they wouldn’t find him.”
“Even if I could get my hands on the suits,” Tremblay groaned, “we’re in the middle of nowhere, in a lifeless system. You, Jason, and anyone who went with you, would run out of air long before another ship passed through,” he insisted, struggling for his own breath as the larger man held him down like he was a child.
“Then we free the others, and fight our way to the bridge, or engineering,” said Heirophant.
“There’s just too few of us, we’d all be killed,” protested Tremblay before adding, “including the Admiral!”
“It would be a fine death, just like Bogart,” disagreed the gunnery rating.
“How about we let the Admiral decide,” Tremblay suggested, his voice taking on more of a pleading tone than he had wanted.
“An honorable death, or hiding like a rat in the walls of this ship. That is no choice at all,” Heirophant said in disgust as he released him.
Tremblay scrambled away for all he was worth, putting distance between himself and the crazy scab. A misplaced elbow caused his stump land against the floor, forcing him to suppress a scream of pain.
“You almost killed me,” Tremblay snapped, sucking in deep breaths of clean, recycled air.
“You lose hand in the uprising,” Heirophant asked.
“In a manner of speaking,” Tremblay glared, “the new Commodore,—the 'Pirate' Montagne—the one who shot our Admiral in the neck, he did this to me,” he explained bitterly.
Heirophant Bogart rolled around to face the wall. “Advise me when it is time,” the Tracto native said, giving every impression he was about to sleep.
“I’ll be jiggered, but you’re all just as crazy as I always suspected,” Tremblay muttered under his breath. Realizing how close to death he had just come, he hurried out of the room. He vowed to never to approach another lancer without at least a ten-foot pole…or a plasma rifle.
Chapter 9: If you’d like to make a call…
Tremblay needed to move quickly. Initially he had planned to utilize that stooge Oleander, but realized the man’s complete lack of simple competence would likely imperil the entire mission and that ignored the man’s tendency to turn on any hand that held the little serpent. But, despite the secret parliamentary agent’s incompetence, it was still tempting to have Heirophant kill the Morale Officer and his Assistant, then have Oleander discover the native scab with his victims, as soon as the deed was done.
Reluctantly, he had decided to insert the hack program designed by the System Analyst and leave that klutz out of it. Everything that man got involved in spiraled out of control. Besides…he was almost certain Agent Oleander had turned in a number of less-than-flattering reports relating to the ship’s former Chief of the Admiral’s Staff, to Captain Heppner.
He might have tried to arrange it anyway, but getting Oleander to discover Heirophant and survive encounter was almost as bad of an idea as trying to get the Admiral off the ship. Only one of them would walk away from such a bloody confrontation, and that might be far enough from what he was supposed to do that it would precipitate another interview with the Commodor
e. The idea made his stomach churn just to think about.
As Tremblay watched the monitors the Morale Officer and his lackey Warrant Officer Eden entered the Brig, which meant it was time to set things in motion. Moving quickly, he flipped the appropriate switches, disabling the monitors in the room he was in, and the one that controlled the section of the Brig holding Jason and Heirophant. He then inserted the data wafer Mike had designed specifically for the job he needed done. With that accomplished, he slipped out of the room, and went to the next spot the plan required.
Pretending to stumble, he leaned against the nearest cell door for support. His officer’s cape fell forward concealing his free hand. It was something he rarely wore, but it served a purpose now, just in case there were other hidden monitors. Quick as a wink, he inserted the second data wafer created by his pet System Analyst.
Tremblay wished he could have used Oleander…blast that man’s incompetence and moral ambiguity. It was too late to worry about now, so scrambling back to his feet, he made a physical show of regaining the bearing and posture of an officer before continuing down the hall at an unhurried pace. As he rounded the corner, he came face to face with Morale Officer Suddian and the Warrant Officer. It was unexpected, and the shock must have shown on his face.
“Tremblay,” Suddian growled his mouth twisting with the words, spiting the name like a curse from his mouth.
Mr. Eden thumbed his forehead. “Morning, Gov,” mocked the lackey, his eyes weighing and measuring the Junior Lieutenant like he was the day’s catch at the wharf.
Tremblay braced himself at attention, and offered a rigid salute.
“Get out of my Brig, Junior Lieutenant,” Suddian sneered. “The mere sight of you disgusts me. You’ve done more than enough damage with your bungling, enough to last a lifetime and beyond,” the Morale Officer used one hand to push Tremblay forcefully to the side, forcing Tremblay's back to thump against the side of the poorly light corridor.
Tremblay flushed at the way he had been manhandled. The action was a violation military courtesy and an insult to his dignity as an officer. Clearly, the Morale Officer could care less about the dignity of junior officers. Tremblay held his pose until the Commander had rounded the corner without stopping to return his salute, before the Junior Lieutenant dropped his hand.
A hard smile crossed his face, since he knew that the Commander was about to learn why it was deathly important to treat his fellow officers with the respect due them. Maybe his soul will benefit from that lesson in the afterlife, Tremblay thought coldly. This was one Junior Lieutenant who would put his money on a certain crazy native gunner over both the Morale Officer and his lackey put together…without a second's hesitation.
“Let’s see how tough you are when your victims aren’t defenseless little women strapped to chair,” Tremblay whispered with a cruel smile, then as he realized it was on his face, he wiped it clean before approaching the guards at the lift, “Good evening, men.”
“Lieutenant,” they snapped smartly as they braced to attention.
“As you were gentlemen,” Tremblay order congenially as he stepping into the lift and turned to face the door and the two as they relaxed to stand at each side of the lift door as before. “Very much as you were,” he whispered as the doors cycled shut.
I had finally found a comfortable position with my braced neck and assorted bandages, when the com-link Bethany had smuggled in gave a low pitched buzz. I pulled the sheet over my head and held the unit close to my ear, but…there was nothing.
Thumbing the transmission switch, I tried broadcasting. “Is anyone out there,” I half rasped, half whispered. My voice never having recovered from being shot and the hours of screaming during my interrogation, by that monster Suddian, had only made things worse. I waited for a response, but there was nothing, not even static. “If you need my help, you’d better tell me what to do,” I hissed.
I might as well be speaking to myself. At that moment I was disgusted with Bethany, myself, and the mysterious non-benefactor of mine, I tossed the com-link beside me and pushed the sheet back down as if I was trying to get comfortable (or at least, less ‘uncomfortable’) again.
Drawing my knees up to my chest, I stared at the wall, determined to ignore the holo-projector. Watching that thing put strange thoughts into my head, and I was trying to avoid thinking about it when there was as thump outside my room, which I was surprised I could even hear. Realizing it might be a signal, I stood with my fists clenched into wrought-iron slugs.
Chapter 10: A door opened, you came out…Hades of a day, isn’t it?
There was another thump outside my door. Feeling like a fool for even doing it, I went over and tried to open the door. I knew it wasn’t going to work. The hand-held had just picked up a random transmission somewhere, and this door would no more open this time than any of the last dozen times I had tried to bend the universe to my will and force it open.
To my surprise, it silently whooshed open. I quickly re-raised my fists, which I was still thinking of as wrought-iron slugs.
Outside, I heard a grunt and a muffled scream, followed by the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh.
Shuffling my feet until I could peer outside my room, I saw a large Tracto native. In one hand he held an inactive neural whip wrapped around the throat of the same Commander Suddian who featured so prominently in my recent nightmares. His other arm held the held the sadistic assistant, John Henry, in a headlock.
The Lancer wavered on his feet and then slammed Suddian’s head into the wall of my cell, which I realized must have been the thumping I’d been hearing. Meanwhile, several hypodermic needles stuck out of the Lancer’s side and leg, and John Henry was pounding his fists into the Lancer’s side for all he was worth.
The surprising—and literally amazing—aspect of the scene was the near total silence this battle was taking place in. Normally, my Tracto-ans felt the need to announce themselves at the top of their lungs, with battle cries ringing up and down the halls for everyone to hear.
I jolted out of my paralysis at the sight of John Henry slamming the palm of his hand into the syringe stuck into the Lancer’s side.
I tried to lunge out of the cell—I honestly tried—but I quickly learned I still had a long way to go before I fully recovered. My movements were unsteady and jerky, but I didn’t care. Thoughts of my torture, the cruel holo-montage, and the deaths of so many of my loyal crew at the hands of this sadistic pair of parliamentary scum drove me forward.
The Tracto-an warrior gave me a nod of acknowledgement as I grimly lurched out of my cell. The Morale Officer in his grasp, his face red and tongue slightly protruding from his mouth, also spotted me. Kicking and flailing against the whip around his neck, with renewed effort, the parliamentary officer managed to get his feet up on the wall and gain some traction.
Giving my Lancer a grin in return, I led with the first of my wrought-iron slugs.
My first slammed into Justin P. Suddian’s already sideways nose, with all the power my traumatized body could put behind it. I didn’t hit him with anything near the force I could have managed before almost dying at the hands of my Uncle—and then getting a fresh beat down by my Cousin—but I couldn’t have cared less at that moment. The angry, sick satisfaction I felt at paying my tormentor back even a small tithe of the pain and suffering he had bestowed upon my crew filled me with a warm, comforting glow.
Even when he kicked me into the wall, I didn’t care. Staggered, and with my hand stinging in a manner entirely inappropriate for a Wrought Iron Slug of Vengeance, nothing fazed me at that particular moment.
Raising the other Slug, I was going to pound him in the face again, when I noticed John Henry change his tactics. Instead of pounding futile blows into the flank of my Lancer, he grabbed one of the syringes and started stabbing in and out with it like some kind of impromptu shiv.
Eyes wide and nostrils flaring, I decided to forgo the satisfaction of another Slug to the face of my tormentor, an
d an instant later when the Commander’s feet temporarily touched the floor, I reared back my leg before slamming it forward like I was kicking a ball on the field.
My aim was on, and my foot slammed into Suddian’s family jewels. Like a jackknife flipping closed, the Morale Officer crumpled with a groan that every man knows all too well.
Bouncing off the wall from the power of my own kick, I was off-balance and winded, even after only walking a dozen feet and throwing two blows. But all I could see was that syringe going in and out of my faithful lancer’s leg and side.
John Henry’s purple face lifted just enough that I could see a dead pair of killer’s eyes staring back at me. The man did not appear to be bothered or discomforted by being slowly choked to death, than he was as he helped Suddian with his butcher’s work. As my other Slug crashed into John Henry’s mouth, I yelped. It had hurt, a lot. If I had thought I was some kind of engine of destruction before, the pain in my hand now forced me to realize that I was not.
Face straining with effort, the Assistant Interrogator spat out a tooth, and bared his teeth in a gap-toothed snarl. He raised his syringe again, and I knew I couldn’t let him plunge it into my loyal defender, not if I could stop him.
Sliding to my knees, I grabbed Eden’s syringe-wielding hand with both of mine. Any illusion that I could overpower the man and force him to release his deadly weapon flew out of my mind, when the assistant interrogator shook me around like a rag doll. Hanging onto that hand for all I was worth, I threw all my weight into holding down the deadly, six inch needle.
Then, with the Morale Officer flailing around on the floor, my added weight pulling down on John Henry had its desired effect. The Lancer groaned as his leg bowed to the side at an unnatural angle, and like a great, majestic tree, he toppled to his knees, taking Mr. Eden and I with him.
Scrambling to his hands and knees, John Henry sucked one mighty breath and grabbed my near hand.
Admiral's Trial (A Spineward Sectors Novel:) Page 7
