The Borrega Test

by James Vincett

  “Remember, if you are captured, we will deny all knowledge.”

  Yazdani smiled at the irony; that was usually his line. “I understand.”

  “We are dropping you over the same region as the last agent, on the equatorial southern continent of Kabir, in a region known as the Kabir Highlands. Check your computer once you land, all last known vital locations and associated data are keyed to the topographic map.”

  Truth be known, this was the most excited he had been about an operation since he did not know how long. He had spent far too long pulling the strings, saying to other agents what Hoffman had just said to him, never taking the risks, always passing the danger off to others, many of whom were killed or disappeared in enemy territory. He hadn’t realized it until now, but that is what had been bothering him for years, the feelings of powerlessness, the guilt, and the frustration.

  This was different. It made him feel alive.

  “Two minutes, Agent Yazdani,” Hoffman said. “Severing communications. Good luck!”

  A tone sounded every second as the clock on his HUD counted down, T minus a dwindling number of seconds. The HUD also showed a graphical representation of Borrega as the intelligence vessel moved closer to the world, a green line representing the ship’s trajectory plotted over the arc of the edge of the planet. Ahead of the ship, on the curved surface of the globe, he saw an approaching coastline, various points of interest noted on the computer graphic.

  The clock reached zero and Yazdani nearly vomited as he felt freefall. Another trajectory line, red in color, appeared on the HUD, and parted ways with the other line; it was the estimated trajectory of the drop capsule. The clock started counting, T plus an increasing number of seconds. A green graphic indicated the electronic counter measures were operational, making the drop capsule appear like a meteor to any sensors scanning this portion of the sky. On the world below, his progress was obvious: a bright streak through the sky as the atmosphere attacked the capsule.

  At T plus 137 seconds, Yazdani heard a series of loud POPS as the explosive bolts holding the capsule together blew. An instant later a drag ‘chute deployed from his harness, slowing his velocity by a hundred clicks per hour, but the HUD on his helmet faceplate still showed an approaching mountain range. A few seconds later the ‘chute released him into freefall again. The HUD on his helmet faceplate automatically dimmed and Yazdani saw the land below was dark.

  The HUD lit up with the words GRAVITY BELT ACTIVATED. Using controls on the belt, he adjusted the strength of the gravity field, slowing his freefall velocity as he fell.

  It was dark; Borrega had no moons and there were no artificial sources of light nearby. The ground was hard and covered with only sparse vegetation, but he was in a shallow arroyo, a ridge looming above him, the mountain range he saw from above somewhere beyond the ridge in the dark. He removed his backpack and quickly stripped off the freefall suit, helmet, and boots. Standing naked, he applied pressure on three different points on the helmet with his fingers, then set it down and watched it disintegrate into a ragged pile of black plastic. He scattered it with a kick of his bare foot.

  He pulled cotton clothes from the canvas backpack and donned the garments: underwear, a faded brown knee-length tunic, brown breeches, leather shoes, a length of plain cotton for a turban, and a gray, hooded robe. The gravity belt was fashioned to look like a normal leather equipment belt and harness with several pouches and compartments for possessions; he belted it around his waist outside of his tunic and pulled the harness over his shoulders. He rolled up the boots in the freefall suit and hid them in some brush.

  His only weapon, besides his hand-to-hand combat training, was a sonic stun pistol. It was non-lethal and used a combination of carefully modulated infrasound and ultrasound to knock out a target. He pulled the small pistol from a pocket, calibrated the weapon for the current atmospheric pressure, and then stuffed it back into the robe.

  He took a deep breath through his nose; the air smelled of desert. He walked a few paces down the arroyo and sat on a large rock. It was still dark, several hours until dawn. The place was quiet, with only the sound of the wind in the sparse vegetation. He activated his pockcomp and looked at the topographic map. A throbbing green dot indicated the computer’s estimate of his landing spot based on his free velocity and trajectory. He zoomed in and looked at the map, but it was too dark to confirm any landmarks. However, according to the map there was a road to the west, just under three hundred meters away, and running fifteen klicks south toward a mountain range. In the mountain range was a vital point of interest, a hidden system of caverns accessed through several concealed passages. It was the original meeting place, where Kilgore’s agents would meet the rebel leadership, all those years ago.

  Already thirsty, he pulled a plastic canteen from his backpack and drank. He shouldered the pack and walked up the arroyo toward the road. He was glad he spent his extensive travel time across the Union exercising; he hadn’t walked three hundred meters since he was a teenager on Kursk. He found himself thinking of his childhood: the daily prayers, confession, playing kickball with his friends, meals with his family. The air was cool and fresh, the stars bright in the night sky. Despite the danger of discovery, and being isolated thousands of light years from his home, he felt elated, maybe even happy … something he hadn’t felt in years.

  He stowed his canteen and walked up the arroyo to the west. His eyes adjusted to the starlight and he found he could see well enough to travel. After several minutes, he stopped and looked at the holographic map. Yes, this was it. The road was not too difficult to follow once he knew where it was, so he turned south to follow the track. After several hours, the sky began to lighten with dawn, the stars winking out in the growing light of the yellow star.

  He saw the mountains ahead of him. The range looked like a great rounded ridge that ran across the horizon. Snow covered the upper reaches, and the growing light revealed ravines and gorges cut in the flanks of the range.

  He walked for a few more hours until the yellow star had risen well above the horizon. He sat on a rock to rest and pulled out his canteen. He saw a cloud of dust in the distance, near the mountains. He remained motionless as the cloud came nearer. He soon saw figures moving across the rolling desert, something he couldn’t quite understand; they were Hominin, to be certain, but each rode a strange beast.

  Horses! They’re riding horses! Yazdani had never seen a horse in the flesh before, and he watched in interest as they moved closer. He calmly drank from his canteen as the horsemen rode up to him. There were at least two-dozen: the riders wore long robes or capes over what looked like military fatigues. Some wore caps but most wore turbans on their heads. Many wore dark goggles or sunglasses, and all carried a rifle. The horses were brown or black with shaggy manes. Yazdani spotted a flowing script on some of the saddles.

  He greeted them in Persian. “How do you do?”

  The men looked at him in silence for several moments. A rider pushed his way forward and replied in the same language. “Greetings, stranger. You are a long way from anywhere.” The man had a tanned face and dark curly hair beneath his hat. He kept a hand on his rifle but did not point it at Yazdani. “Where do you come from?”

  “Siyazan, on the coast. My name is Cyrus Yazdani.” The location was a code-phrase for contact with the Resistance.

  “The manner of your speech is strange, Cyrus, but not unknown.” The man looked at his companions and then back at Yazdani. “My name is Fashid. What do you seek out here in the desert?”

  “I am looking for a man by the name of Sarafian. Ujal Sarafian.”

  The men whispered and looked at each other, but Fashid held up his hand. “What business do you have with this man Sarafian?”

  “I bring word from a friend of his.”

  “And who is this friend?”

  “Kilgore.”

  The men muttered again, but Fashid silenced them with a hiss. “And what is the message?”

  “I
t is for Sarafian alone.”

  Fashid and the other men remained silent for a few moments. “The desert is no place for one man to walk alone, Cyrus Yazdani.” He looked at one of his men. “Taymaz, lead the others to the installation. Yusef, Ali and I will escort Cyrus back to Kabir Caverns.” Fashid looked at Yazdani and held out a hand. “Do you ride, Cyrus?”

  “No, Fashid.”

  Fashid smiled. “Then you definitely do not belong in the desert.” Yazdani grabbed his hand and awkwardly climbed up onto the horse behind Fashid; he didn’t know if the stench that assaulted his nostrils came from the rider or the beast.

  Yazdani could barely stay on the mount as they rode toward the mountains. After only a few minutes, his legs and back were so sore that he thought he would never recover. Fashid and the other men remained silent as they rode toward the mountains. After an hour, they reached a large gate set into a sheer cliff. Yazdani spotted men with rifles looking out from small balconies and other spaces above the gate. With a shout from Fashid, the gate rose and they rode into a narrow passage. A few moments later, they emerged in a large cavern. A large metal scaffold and staircase climbed upward into the darkness, the bottom of the structure lit by several large lanterns. The sounds of the horses echoed in the cave. Other men appeared from the shadows.

  “Tell the General he has a guest,” Fashid said as he slid off the horse. Yazdani did not dismount so much as fall off the animal. He landed squarely on his butt to the sounds of laughter from the other men. Fashid pulled him to his feet with a smile. “Follow me, Cyrus.”

  Yazdani rubbed his legs as he followed Fashid to an elevator car at the bottom of the scaffold. Fashid ordered the two guards to stand aside as he summoned the elevator car. “I am taking you to see the Colonel.” The door opened and they stepped into the elevator and rode in silence to the top. They stepped out of the elevator car and Fashid led him to the left down a narrow passage. They passed several heavy metal doors set into the stone. Fashid opened a door to a larger chamber. A large round table dominated the space. Carpets on the stone floors and several low couches rounded out the furnishings. A window carved into the far wall let in the daylight.

  “Stay here. The General will be with you as soon as he can.” Fashid closed the door with a clink.

  Yazdani let out a long breath and wiped his brow. He knew someone or something was probably watching him; he took off his long robe and shoes and sat down on one of the couches.

  A few minutes later, a knock sounded at the door. With a clink, the door opened and a young man entered the chamber carrying a basin, a pitcher, and a towel. Another followed with a platter of food and another pitcher. Without a word, the two men set the objects on the table, exited the chamber, and closed the door behind them.

  Yazdani washed his hands and face, drank some water, and ate a handful of almonds. He looked out of the window; beyond the bars was an alpine canyon, the rounded peaks of the range towering a hundred meters above. He heard water flowing in the distance.

  After several minutes, Yazdani heard another knock at the door. The door opened to reveal a tall but thin man. He wore dun-colored loose pants, a knee-length tunic with loose sleeves and a high collar, and a long coat with over-sized epaulets and large pockets. Four starburst pins glinted on the front of his peaked cap. His face looked tanned and creased, his cheeks and chin covered with a thick black beard.

  He walked into the room and looked at Yazdani for several moments as if studying him. “Cyrus Yazdani.”

  “Yes,” Yazdani replied, and walked forward with outstretched hand.

  The man shook it. “I am General Darius Shirazi.” He shrugged off his coat, stepped to the table and poured himself a cup of water. “Several of the men think you are an assassin come to kill me,” he said and drank.

  “Maybe I am,” Yazdani replied with a smile.

  Shirazi smiled. “I think not. If you were an assassin, you would not have taken off your shoes. Such an act makes it more difficult to escape.”

  I like this man. “Do you know General Sarafian?”

  “General Sarafian is dead.” Shirazi sat on a couch and leaned back. “He died, just down the passage from this very chamber, fourteen years ago, shot in the head by a Naati assault trooper. I know, too, that Admiral Kilgore is long dead. So, what possible message could you carry from him, Cyrus Yazdani?” The man looked at him, his body relaxed, but his eyes watched him intently.

  Yazdani sat on a couch opposite. “I am an agent of the Hominin Union. I have been sent by the General Intelligence Directorate to make contact with the Resistance.”

  “Go on.” Shirazi drank from his cup.

  “The Union believes we will soon be at war with the Naati Hegemony. We need an ally on Borrega. The Shah is hostile to Union interests and has, in the past, allied with the Naati. We are prepared to go all the way; full support for the absolute overthrow of the Shah of Borrega and his security forces and the installation of a regime friendly to the Union. My orders are to gather as much information as possible about the strength, number, and positions of both the Resistance and the Shah’s security forces, and transmit this information to the fleet when it arrives.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  “An open-ended lease for Imperial naval installations in orbit and on the surface.”

  Shirazi smiled. “You abandoned us, Cyrus! Why should I believe you now?”

  “The interests of the Union and the Resistance coincide. That was not the case before.”

  “You are not being completely honest with me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are ongoing preparations for the Shah of Borrega to host a diplomatic meeting between the Hominin Union and a faction of the Naati Hegemony.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “We’re religious, Cyrus, not stupid. We have our ways of finding things out, and I’ve been expecting a visit from someone like you.” Shirazi rose and re-filled his water cup. “Do you trust the Shah to host such delicate negotiations?”

  “The Union Diplomatic Corps believes it is the best place.”

  “It is a bit awkward for the Naati, given what they have done on Borrega.”

  “I think that is the intent.”

  Shirazi nodded. “Awkward, too, that the Naati have returned. Just about a year ago, but not nearly as many.”

  “They’re looking for something.”

  “Yes. They brought some of their slaves, and they’re digging at several locations on the southern continent of Kabir. They do not bother us here, or our coastal towns, but we are still careful not to attract their notice, though we do watch them.”

  “Interesting. I’ll need to know more about this. As for the Shah, we cannot move against him until after the negotiations. Will you help us?”

  “Of course I will, Cyrus! There are things you need to see. But for now, eat and rest. We ride early tomorrow morning.”

  That was too easy.

  Yazdani rubbed his legs. “Ride? A horse?” The things I do for the Union.

  In the morning, about three dozen men and mounts got underway, exiting the caverns through a narrow passage and out into an alpine meadow. Yazdani rode beside General Shirazi at the head of the column. A group of three scouts rode ahead fifty meters.

  The sky looked clear, with only a few high clouds. The mountains loomed above the narrow meadow. “The Kabir Mountains have served us well,” Shirazi said as the column moved through the meadow. “This entire range is riddled with ravines, passages, tubes, and caverns. Even after two hundred years, we do not know them all. There are still areas of active volcanism, and we believe some passages reach deep into the planet’s crust. Because the terrain is so rugged, horses are still the best way to travel through these highlands. We have aircraft at bases on the coast, but we do not fly over the mountains for fear of the Naati.”

  “Is there any danger?” Yazdani asked.

  “From the mountains? Yes, Cyrus. Avalanches and cave-ins ar
e common. However, it is a risk we are willing to take. This mountain range is our fortress, where the Resistance retreated to hide from the Shah, and where we hid during the Naati occupations. During darker days hundreds of thousands occupied the larger spaces below the mountains.”

  “Not today?”

  “The Shah’s power is limited to the northern continent of Aviz. The security forces have tried several times to undertake a thorough exploration of the Kabir Mountains to find our secret places, but it is three thousand kilometers long, stretching from one side of the continent to the other; an impossible task, to be sure.”

  “Where do your people live now?”

  “We have towns and villages on the coast of this continent. This part of Borrega is free, a freedom we purchased with great sacrifice since the Naati left fourteen years ago. Now our duty is to defend ourselves from any attempts to subjugate this continent.”

  The meadow pinched off to a narrow stony trail. Little more than a meter wide, the trail climbed up cliffs, dove down into narrow ravines, followed gurgling streams, crossed more alpine meadows, and traversed the saddles between the rounded peaks. In some places, the mounted column lay exposed to the sky, with a thousand meters of sheer cliff below and snow-covered rounded peaks looming above; one false step and a mount could lose footing and plunge into the abyss, animal, rider and equipment lost. The narrowness of some ravines required the men to unload their mounts, grease the sides of the animals, and then literally push the beasts through the narrow space. The riders spent nights in rough-floored caves, under narrow overhangs, among thick stands of willow-like trees, or bedded down in high grass. Most days dawned clear, but the wind buffeted the column whenever it traversed a cliff face or climbed up and over the range.

  The mountains were composed of a dark and roughly textured rock. In some places, the rock was so sharp Yazdani cut his hand with the slightest touch, while in other places, like cliffs, it was smoother, almost black, and formed into straight-sided columns. Yazdani noticed the tops of some ridges looked almost like frozen foam, with large gaps and air spaces. The peaks of the ranges looked rounded from a distance, but when they climbed up to pass through a saddle between two peaks, he noticed the surface was far from smooth, but a jumbled inhospitable environment of sharp-edged boulders and smaller rocks. In some places huge ravines, tens of meters wide and several kilometers long ran along the axis of the range like bottomless cracks, as if a giant had cut a gash in the surface of the range with a huge ax. The mountain range looked mostly bare of vegetation, but in some places stands of willow-like trees, or meadows of tall grasses, covered the rock or grew in the deep soils of the ravines and valleys.