Endeavour (Atlantia Series Book 4)

by Dean Crawford

  ‘Have you figured out anything about the veil yet?’

  ‘Other than I’d like to drape it over your damned head for a while?’ Meyanna replied sweetly.

  The captain’s patience withered almost instantly.

  ‘I can’t help you if you decided to take on too much. You put yourself up for the candidacy of councillor, Meyanna. The people voted for you, that’s what you wanted, what you told me I should do.’

  ‘I didn’t expect to be doing it entirely on my own,’ Meyanna replied with a tight smile that conveyed anything but warmth. ‘Since being elected I have not had a single member of the crew provided to help me with anything.’

  ‘That’s because this is a military vessel and the crew are not concerned with politics,’ Idris replied. ‘If you want help, recruit it on a voluntary basis from the damned people that insisted they wanted a say!’

  The ward beyond the laboratory had fallen silent as Idris’s voice had risen. The captain felt a vague pang of shame as Andaim stepped in, his voice calm and controlled but his features creased with concern.

  ‘Ma’am, you really need to see this,’ he said. ‘It’s definitely something you’d be interested in.’

  Meyanna sighed and tore off her medical gloves, looking at Andaim rather than her husband.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Endeavor, ma’am.’

  *

  General Bra’hiv paced impatiently up and down on Endeavour’s bridge as he awaited the arrival of Captain Sansin and his wife. Meyanna, the senior surgeon on Atlantia and a person with more medical knowledge than anybody Bra’hiv had ever met, was also one of the most well–liked and respected members of the crew. Her presence would have a calming effect on his Marines, who right now were also pacing nervously up and down and unable to take their eyes off the macabre head fused into the control panels.

  ‘It ain’t natural, general,’ one of them muttered.

  ‘I know what it ain’t,’ Bra’hiv snapped, mocking the soldier’s poor grammar. ‘Stand your post and don’t damned well look at it if you don’t like it.’

  The Marines were manning the various bridge stations, some of them working to get power into the crucial systems. General Bra’hiv, ever cautious of the presence of the Legion even out here, had forbidden any of his men from engaging the heating systems or the ship’s main computer without his express permission. He wanted no repeat of the fiasco aboard the Sylph.

  ‘General?’ a Marine called, a man named Mears. ‘We’ve accessed the power terminals, right back to the fusion core.’

  Bra’hiv marched across to join Mears and looked down to see a single display screen with a scroll of data streaming down it. Basic text was in place of the normal colourful graphics, a simple boot–system detailing power available, circuit breaker status across the ship and system status along with it.

  ‘What do you make of it?’ Bra’hiv asked, never much of an engineer himself.

  ‘I’d say that we’re in business,’ Mears replied. ‘The ship’s core is intact and still more than able to power the vessel. Most of the power lines for’ard of mid–ships are secure and active.’

  ‘You’re saying we can heat and light the ship, if we want to?’

  ‘Aye, general,’ Mears nodded.

  Bra’hiv thought for a moment. The cold was aching through his bones, even the atmospheric suits bleeding body heat over long periods of time when exposed to such bitter conditions, but he remained resolutely opposed to activating the environmental controls.

  ‘Activate the lighting,’ he said finally. ‘Keep the temperature down until Meyanna Sansin has checked that.., thing out.’

  Mears accessed an old–fashioned keyboard that slid out from beneath the panel and typed a few simple commands into the prompt screen. Moments later a humming sound emanated from around the ship and then the ceiling lights flickered and began to grow in brightness until Bra’hiv could clearly see the bridge around them.

  ‘Run a diagnostic and see if you can learn what happened to the ship,’ Bra’hiv ordered, keen to take advantage of the power supply. ‘Then see if you an access her logs too.’

  ‘Aye, general.’

  The Marines guarding the bridge entrance stood back and General Bra’hiv saluted as Captain Sansin walked in, followed by Lieutenant C’rairn, Andaim and Meyanna Sansin, all wearing their atmospheric suits and Meyanna carrying a bag of medical supplies.

  ‘Captain, ma’am,’ Bra’hiv greeted them. ‘My apologies for the temperature, but after what happened on the Sylph I thought it prudent to maintain as cold an atmosphere as possible.’

  ‘That’s fine, general,’ Meyanna replied.

  ‘Indeed,’ the captain added, ‘my wife’s probably barely noticed it.’

  Meyanna shot Idris a harsh glare. The general glanced at Andaim, who said nothing, so he beckoned Meyanna to follow him.

  ‘What’s so important that you’ve had to bring me all the way over here?’ she asked.

  Bra’hiv led Meyanna to the communications station, and stood back as she rounded the counter and promptly leaped back from it as one hand flew to her chest.

  ‘Mother of Ethera,’ she gasped.

  Bra’hiv watched as Meyanna recovered from her initial surprise and horror, and then leaned closer to the face embedded into the console. Captain Sansin took one look at the face and then turned to Bra’hiv.

  ‘The Legion? Surely not out here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bra’hiv replied, not wanting to commit to any guesswork while the doctor was present.

  Meyanna knelt down and examined the horrific visage. The flesh, skin and bone fused perfectly with the metallic surface of the panel, blending with no visible joins. The hair, splayed out across the console, likewise ran like frozen rivers into the panel and vanished. Ice crystals glinted in the light, the man’s face as pale as death and still locked in its eternal rictus of agony.

  Meyanna reached down to the access panel beneath the console and opened it. As she leaned down she gasped audibly again as she observed the back of the man’s head, a mass of frozen veins, arteries and tissue melding seamlessly into electrical circuits and wires clumped together en masse and passing through a series of resistors.

  ‘What can you see?’ Idris asked.

  Meyanna ducked her head back out of the panel and closed it, but she did not reply as she looked again at the man’s face and then the rest of the bridge.

  ‘Why this console?’ she wondered out loud, her voice a whisper. ‘It’s the communications console, correct?’

  ‘Yes ma’am,’ Bra’hiv replied, watching her keenly.

  Meyanna looked at the console for a moment longer and then turned to the general.

  ‘Engage the bridge heating and route the power into the bridge to re–engage the systems here.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ Bra’hiv asked. ‘You know what happened last time we…’

  ‘I know what happened aboard the Sylph,’ she cut him off. ‘Maintain the cold in the rest of the ship, just isolate the bridge and warm it up a little.’

  ‘Yes ma’am,’ Bra’hiv replied and relayed the order to Mears.

  Captain Sansin stepped to his wife’s side. ‘You sure you know what you’re doing?’

  Meyanna did not look at Idris as she replied. ‘It’s a hunch.’

  ‘You don’t know what will happen if we warm the bridge up though.’

  ‘Well, if nothing else maybe it’ll do me some good, eh?’ she challenged him with a sly glance.

  The captain did not respond as vents in the ceiling began billowing hot air into the bridge. General Bra’hiv removed his helmet first as the temperature rose, and then nodded to his men. The Marines removed their headgear, followed by Captain Sansin and Meyanna.

  ‘I don’t know what you hope to achieve by this,’ Idris said to his wife. ‘The ship’s dead.’

  Meyanna did not reply as she moved to the communications console and looked down at the face. The frost particles were me
lting, the victim’s taut and frigid skin relaxing as moisture trickled down his cheeks and off the panels around him.

  Meyanna watched for a few moments more and then her heart leaped in her chest.

  The man’s eyes opened.

  ***

  XI

  Pain.

  It seared and throbbed, aching in laborious pulses that ground through his bones and skull in ceaseless rhythm to his fluttering, weakening heart.

  Qayin had lost all track of time, sense of place and belonging. His mind it seemed had retreated, shrunk back to occupy only a tiny speck of existence in an attempt to block out the sheer agony that filled his world. The crack of the plasma whip seemed like a distant symphony of thunder, his limbs mere memories suspended around him and long devoid of sensation.

  Qayin’s eyes were closed, sealed shut from exhaustion, his head hanging so low that his chin rubbed against his chest. The taste of blood on his tongue was a mild diversion from the sight of it pooling on the deck below his feet, and for a few moments he was lost in a blissful delirium of sleep, devoid of sensation.

  He became aware that the pain of the plasma–whip and its attendant hiss and snarl had ceased. Left in its wake was a world of pain that enveloped him in its cruel embrace, holding him as though to cherish the moment. Through his suffering Qayin somehow managed to open one eye. The deck below was stained red and glistening with his blood, his vision blurred so that he could not really focus on anything. He wondered briefly if this was the end. Perhaps the Veng’en had finally grown tired of the game and decided to end Qayin’s life in a brief display of mercy, which Qayin realised would be hugely welcomed. He no longer wanted to live. There was nothing much worth living for anyway, and he realised that his injuries must be extensive: survival was now simply the weaker of his options.

  The deck heaved beneath him and he felt something thump his forehead. His vision starred and he realised that he was laying now on the deck, the metal plating as soft as his mother’s arms and beckoning him toward sleep. Only a terrible thirst prevented him from slipping into unconsciousness.

  He saw his arm lift up beside him, and then the deck sliding beneath his bloodied frame as he was dragged without sensation. Moments later, he was lifted off the deck and slumped into a chair. Through one barely–open eye Qayin saw Kordaz fixing manacles to his ankles and then to his wrists, securing him in place. As though witnessing a dream, he saw the Veng’en insert with expert precision an intravenous line into Qayin’s left arm and then attach a bag of saline fluid to it that he suspended alongside the chair in mid–air.

  Confusion swam through Qayin’s miserable world as he watched the Veng’en work, and then suddenly he felt the thirst slip away as his consciousness jerked him awake. The pain intensified as his senses sharpened and he sucked in a lung full of air.

  Kordaz stood back and looked down at Qayin. ‘Feeling better?’

  As ever there was no emotion in his tones, but somehow Qayin detected something approaching satisfaction. He could not bring himself to speak, could in fact barely see Kordaz as his head was lolling onto his chest again, too weak to hold itself aloft.

  ‘It’s a shame,’ Kordaz went on, ‘that I have to improvise with such inadequate implements. A plasma whip is so human, so un–refined. We Veng’en prefer not to damage our captives on the outside, you see. It’s far more psychologically damaging to insert foreign objects inside the body, it inflicts so much more pain. It also denies the subject the ultimate satisfaction of witnessing that damage healing, the scars fading.’

  Qayin did not respond, partly because he was too exhausted and partly because some part of him knew that remaining silent was something that might irritate the Veng’en. Despite the threat of further violence, Qayin could not help himself.

  However, to Qayin’s surprise the Veng’en merely shrugged at the silence and strode away. Qayin managed to lift his head a little, his skull seeming to weigh tonnes as he watched Kordaz check a display screen across the hold.

  ‘Your friends have dropped out of super–luminal cruise,’ Kordaz growled with interest as he scanned the data streaming down the screen. ‘It’s time for us to meet them once more, Qayin, and for you to pay for everything that you have done.’

  The Veng’en turned and strode from the hold, and the hatch hissed shut behind him to leave Qayin alone in the darkness.

  Qayin peered at the deck below where he had been suspended. It looked as though he’d been exsanguinated three times over, although he knew that spilt fluid across a level surface always appears to have more volume that it actually does. More blood hung in lazily spinning globules in the zero gravity, reflecting the low light. He looked down at his body and for a brief moment his guts pinched in grief for the damage that had been done to him. His uniform was in shreds, scorched and tattered by the repeated blows of the plasma whip, and beneath it his body was tiger–striped with ugly black wounds. Barely a patch of untouched skin remained, the welts and lesions leaking blood and clear fluid as blisters formed along their edges.

  Qayin moved his gaze wearily to his wrists, manacled to the chair. Blood was trickling down his arms and across his hands, slick and glistening in the dull glow of the hold lights. The blood seeped beneath the manacles, and Qayin pushed and pulled his right hand gently to see the wrist lubricated with his own blood. He kept it moving, focusing all of his strength on his wrist. The blood seeped and squeezed around the manacle, and Qayin tucked his fingers in and began to pull. His hands were large but so were his wrists, and Kordaz had not been so diligent as to ensure that the manacles were as tight as they could be. Qayin tucked his thumb in and pulled harder as he saw his hand begin to slip through the manacle, the metal hard as it tugged against his thinly lubricated skin. He pushed his hand back again, let more of his blood seep beneath the manacle, and then tried again.

  He gritted his teeth against yet more pain, and this time his hand slipped free with a sucking sound. Qayin, exhausted, sat for a long moment in silence as he flexed his hand and caught his breath. Then, slowly, he undid the manacle on his left wrist before leaning forward and freeing his ankles.

  He spent a few moments catching his breath once more as he unhooked the intravenous line from his arm, then surveyed the hold. Qayin knew that he was in no shape to fight, that in fact he quite probably would have difficulty walking. He tried to move his legs and was stunned to find that he could not do so, the muscles twitching and trembling but clearly unable to take his weight.

  Anger flared from somewhere deep inside as Qayin sought an escape from the hold. He was looking aft when he spotted a familiar sight. Lashed to the rear of the hold, barely visible through the gloom, were several blue barrels. His mind flashed back to his escape from Chiron IV and the prize that he had taken with him.

  Devlamine, the Devil’s Drink.

  The drug had been mixed with an accelerant to provide a draw and a death for the Legion, the Hunters designed to obtain the drug wherever they found it, for it was through drug abuse that the Legion had originally begun infecting the human race. Qayin, however, had been busily re–filtering the raw Devlamine back out ready for sale. His eyes flicked right, to the ranks of smaller silver flasks likewise lashed down: the pure Devlamine.

  Qayin pushed himself forward off the seat and slumped slowly onto the blood–soaked deck as his legs crumpled beneath him, the thermal suit filled with tiny iron filings that attracted to the magnetically charged plates below the deck. He gritted his teeth against the pain and slowly began to drag himself across the deck.

  Qayin had never taken a recreational drug in his life. In fact he hated them, having witnessed so many times the awful consequences of addiction and overdosing in habitual users. But now he knew that the Devlamine was the only thing that could save him from certain death at Kordaz’s hands. Its powerful pain–killing properties and adrenaline–fuelling kick might just be enough to get him off the damned ship before Kordaz found Atlantia. Qayin had no idea what the Veng’en had plann
ed, but he had no desire to return to Colonial service.

  The deck rubbed painfully against his wounds as Qayin hauled himself through the hold and finally reached the silver flasks. There were two types of flask: one type was perfectly polished and had a blue ring at the top and the bottom. The other type was identical, but Qayin had marked them with a tiny scratch in the blue ring. These scratched flasks were the weaker quality Devlamine, watered down and designed for sale to either people Qayin wanted to rip off, or people whose company he enjoyed enough to not want to see them dead within a few months. It had been the diluted Devlamine that Qayin had supplied to Evelyn aboard Atlantia as well as some of Bravo Company’s Marines.

  Qayin reached for the scratched flasks, managed to unhook one from its fixings and held it against his chest as he lay on the deck. He was exhausted, dehydrated and suffering from acute blood loss, but with the last of his strength he dragged himself back to the chair and hauled his body up into a sitting positon once more.

  Carefully Qayin re–inserted the IV line into his arm, but this time he reached up to where the saline fluid bag floated in mid–air above him. He pulled the bag down and tore open the top before pouring a small amount of the pure Devlamine into the saline fluid.

  The clear fluid turned a deep, rich red–brown. Qayin shook the bag gently, swirling the Devlamine and mixing it before he reached up and left the bag hanging above him. Exhausted, he slumped into the seat once more and breathed deeply.

  It took a moment for him to realise what was happening. He didn’t really know what to expect from the drug, although he hoped fervently that it included a release from the pain wracking his weary body. As he sat slumped in the seat so he realised that he felt as though he was floating above it, no sensation from the backs of his legs. He looked down and his head swam as he lost balance. Qayin gripped the arms of the chair and breathed deeply as the Devlamine began to surge through his veins, and his vision suddenly sharpened as the pain receded into history and a grandiose sense of invincibility blossomed like a demon within him.