And while they had succeeded in severing Blackthorn’s umbilical, he felt that personally he deserved very little of the credit. That had all been down to the bravery of Grimes and Jackson. He’d even surrendered the piloting of the Dardelion to Silva.
No, not much there to inspire a crew’s confidence. Not much at all.
“Okay. I hear what you’re saying but I don’t want to move ahead with the funeral arrangements until someone’s spoken to Jackson. Make sure that this is something she wants to run with. Can I leave that to you?”
There he was again, delegating his responsibility.
Silva nodded solemnly.
“Yes, sir. I’ll get onto it right away.”
CHAPTER THREE
Morton had been sitting in the processing chamber for a little over two hours when the two guards on the door opposite snapped to attention. She pushed herself to her feet, just in time to see a high ranking Yakutian officer sweeping down the corridor towards her.
She’d so far been frustrated in her attempts to meet with the captain or indeed any of the senior officers on-board. And every piece of information she managed to glean from those around her only further highlighted her ignorance concerning the realities of their present situation. Perhaps if she’d had just a little understanding of Coptic things might have been different but she doubted it.
It didn’t help that she was a woman, either.
In all the time they’d been there, she was yet to see a sign of a single woman. She’d known that the Empire’s attitude was pretty backwards in regard to how they viewed women in the services but she couldn’t believe that the fleet made no attempt to utilise at least some of their skills.
One of the other things she’d been pondering was the differentiation of insignia markings. She’d assumed that because they had their own captain, the Empire’s ranking system would somehow mimic that of the Confederation but nothing that she seen so far seemed to bear that out. There appeared, for example, to be no way of differentiating between junior officers and NCOs and, every time she thought that she’d identified a pattern, something else would present itself to undermined her assumptions, often spectacularly. Which was why she was so intrigued by the arrival of such a senior figure.
He was much taller than the average Yakutian and broader too, sporting a dark green uniform of such high quality that it was immediately clear that he had to be part of Mahbarat’s senior team. So she wasn’t in the least bit surprised when he introduced himself as Commander Longeran Sunderam – no doubt an abbreviated version of his actual name but all the more welcome for that. She hadn’t really expected Mahbarat to agree to meet her and was secretly pleased that he had sent his second-in-command instead - the man who, no doubt, was charged with doing most of the work. His presence suggested that, at the very least, they were taking her seriously.
Sunderam’s English was impeccable and she found herself relaxing in his company as she fielded his inquiries into the state of her health. She knew that he was using the time to assess her, but his responses to her answers seemed genuine enough. It was also apparent that his attention was unbroken. He resisted the urge to consult his implants at regular intervals, a courtesy which pleased her no end.
“Captain Mahbarat sends his apologies. He regrets that he couldn’t come to meet with you personally.”
I’m sure he said no such thing, Morton thought but she appreciated the sentiment.
“He’s asked me to draw up an action plan for the ways in which we might better facilitate your people. The captain would like to see a copy by the end of the day.”
“I think that we could manage that,” she said. “But could I also ask you about the current state of the Search and Rescue mission. Is it true that you only have room on-board for forty five of us?”
“That is correct,” he said, without missing a beat.
“That seems an incredibly small number bearing in mind your ship’s obvious capacity.”
Sunderam narrowed his eyes at the perceived criticism. “I can’t comment on that. These things are not decided by us, they’re laid down by the Empire’s Arch Hexate. They’re not open to discussion.”
Morton wanted to argue the point but there was something in his tone which warned her off. That was an argument to be had at a later date.
“I have made arrangements for you to have a room to yourself along with an office where you can consult with your crew.”
“I appreciate the offer,” she said diplomatically. “But I’d prefer to stay where I am.”
If they were prepared to give her an office it would invariably be bugged and if it was their aim to eavesdrop on all her conversations she had no intention of making it easy for them.
“Any particular reason?”
“After all they’ve been through, I think that it’s important that they can have access to me at all times.”
“Have it your own way,” he conceded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
After he’d left, Morton had to wait until an officer came down to take her back down to where the other prisoners were being held. As they walked, she made a careful note of the route they took. It was slightly different to the route they’d taken to get there and there was no telling when such information might come in useful.
In fact, she was so focussed on this that she almost missed Hermendal coming the other way.
They were almost level when she realised who it was. Unlike her, he was wearing restraints.
“Heay, Hermendal! Where are you off to?”
His eyes slid away from her and he kept on walking.
“Hermendal. Hermendal!”
But he refused to turn his head and kept right on moving
CHAPTER FOUR
The funeral went better than Webster had any right to expect.
He had thought that Joanna Silva might have been the one to step up in terms of setting the tone but, in the end, it had been Sergeant Markham who had taken charge of proceedings. He had called by Webster’s room the night before with a series of notes for Webster’s perusal. Webster, not having come up through the Corps, could hardly be expected to know how they liked to do things and Markham was keen to ensure that all the necessary principles were observed.
Webster had been discomfited at first by Markham’s presence in his quarters but put that down to the fact that he’d been getting ready for bed when Markham had called. But after a while he realised the true cause of his discomfort: Markham was being nice to him. Previously, they had worked at just getting along, being professional around one another but nothing more. But now it seemed that that was about to change.
He’d always assumed that Markham disapproved of his leadership style and had only tolerated him because it had been Faulkner who had put him in charge of the Blackthorn operation. Even when Webster had decided to seize the Dardelion, he’d only managed to do so with Markham’s considerable assistance.
It had very much been a case of Markham saying: you’re in charge because I say you’re in charge.
Now, however, things were different. Markham had even removed his forage cap. They’d sat side-by-side on Webster’s bed, Markham taking him through the order of service like an indulgent uncle guiding the groom through the finer points of the wedding ceremony.
Despite the late hour, Webster had started to relax. He’d felt as though he could ask any question, no matter how lame, without fear of criticism. It was as though Markham had made a point of educating the young officer in preparation for similar events to come.
By the time Markham finally left, Webster’s tablet was filled with pages of notes. He suddenly felt confident about the whole ceremony after days of being in denial. In fact, he was so buoyed by the experience that he decided to sit down then and there in order to re-draft the whole thing from start to finish.
Although that meant he went to bed a lot later than anticipated, he slept soundly, assured of a job well done. He had anticipated a major stumbling block only now, with Markham�
�s help, he hoped that they could do justice to Grimes and everything he’d done.
The crew, made up almost entirely of Marines, formed up in two lines on either side of the coffin which had been draped in the Confederation flag. Since the Dardelion was the transport for the Governor of Blackthorn it was equipped for all manner of state occasions, one of which was the repatriation of deceased diplomats, so there was actually a coffin already on-board. Ardent had been the one to suggest that they use it. She was up and around despite her gun-shot wound and so had shown them where it was stored. The coffin was made of teak and, as such, would have been extremely expensive.
Sergeant Markham performed the eulogy and it was a masterly piece of work. He seemed to have a level of understanding of Grimes’ background which far out-stripped a perusal of the man’s military records. Webster was surprised to hear for instance that Grimes’ father and older brother had both trained as pastors.
As Markham finished, one of Grimes’ friends stepped forward, made the sign of the cross before blessing the body with holy water.
After a reasonable amount of time had passed, Webster asked, “Would anyone like to say anything.”
There was an awkward silence and then LaCruz Jackson made her way forward and stood looking over the casket.
Slowly, she removed the crucifix from around her neck. The chain caught in the hair at the nape of her neck and Joanna Silva stepped forward to help her pull it clear.
There was a hushed silence as Jackson bent over the coffin then took her time arranging the chain so that the cross lay flat.
Then she bent to kiss the coffin.
Someone caught their breath at that.
When she was done, Jackson saluted before stepping smartly back into line. Silva, who was standing directly opposite, mouthed something which Webster failed to catch. He’d taken the trouble of writing the final prayer on a piece of card and now, as his eyes started to swim, he was glad he had.
“Oh God, we pray that the memory of our friend, Corporal Michael Charles Grimes, be forever in our hearts.
“And that the sacrifice he has made may be acceptable in your sight.
“We commend his body to the stars knowing that he gave his life in order that others might live.
“Into your hands, we commend your servant, Michael, now called to eternal rest, and we commit his body to the depths of space.”
Webster flinched as the conveyor belt, on which the coffin was mounted, jerked into life. This seemed to catch the two Marines at the head of the coffin by surprise and they had to work quickly to remove the flag before they could begin the intricate task of folding it. The first conveyor belt reached as far as the main airlock but there was a second conveyor belt just inside the door which would transfer the coffin into position for the last part of the ceremony. The gap between the two measured less than six inches and the hand-off went without a hitch.
Once the coffin was in place, Markham went to close the pressure door manually and while he was doing this Taps began playing in the background, the sound of the solitary bugle echoing around the cramped interior.
They had a long wait while the air inside the ‘lock was recycled. Only then did the external door open, exposing the coffin to the coldness of space. Cameras had been mounted inside so that those present could watch as Lance Corporal Grimes began the final leg of his journey.
At the same time, the two Marines completed the process of folding the flag, flattening it into a neat triangle. For a second, Webster panicked, unsure of who was meant to receive the flag as there were no family members present. Markham had obviously thought of that though because the lead Marine turned and approached Jackson. She seemed uncertain what to do but took the flag anyway, lowering her head in acknowledgement as the men saluted.
Webster felt a sense of disassociation as the second conveyor belt seemed to start up unbidden, easing the coffin through the outer door.
No one moved for a long time after the coffin appeared to have been swallowed up by the void and, in order to break the spell, Webster began to thank some of those in attendance. It was the troopers who were still technically on duty who began to move off first. They didn’t need reminding to return to their posts. Like countless other service men and women before them, they looked relieved to have been given another purpose, something mundane to distract them from the harsh reality of what they’d just witnessed.
As he made to leave, Silva fell into step alongside him.
“How do you think that went?” he asked.
“I thought it was beautiful. Where did you get that final prayer, it was really touching.”
“Markham helped me put it together.”
“Really? Markham? Well isn’t he just full of surprises.”
Webster made sure that no one was behind them before continuing. “What about Jackson? With the flag? She seemed to take that particularly hard.”
“I’m sure they’re not the first couple to carry on a clandestine relationship on-board ship,” she raised an eyebrow. “Nor will they be the last. But don’t worry about her, I’ve moved her out into an all female room so we can keep an eye on her.”
“What about getting her something from the pharmacy – help her get some sleep?”
“Already taken care of, though getting her to take it is another matter entirely.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” they were almost back to the cockpit.
“Oh, one other thing. I picked this up yesterday but you had a lot on your plate. After the crash, we continued to receive a transponder signal from the Mantis for something like six hours. Then it cut out completely.”
“Okay,” Webster didn’t know what it was she wanted him to say. “Is that unusual?”
“Not the fact that it carried on transmitting, no. It was more to do with where it was transmitting from.”
“What do you mean – ‘where it was transmitting from?’ Surely, it just crashed into Blackthorn. Surely?”
“That’s what you’d think. So, would it surprise you to know that the transponder continued on for some four hundred thousand kilometres beyond Blackthorn before cutting out completely?”
They were just outside the entrance to the cockpit but neither of them seemed in any hurry to enter.
“Could a part of the Mantis not have broken off as a result of the impact? That’s possible, isn’t it?”
Silva looked away. “It’s possible, I suppose. But four hundred thousand kilometres? I mean, come on!”
CHAPTER FIVE
As the senior Confederation officer on board the Serrayu, Morton found that she had very little free time. The muster room where they were being kept had been divided in half with the help of a long green curtain. With only nineteen women and twenty six men there was more room on the female side but that didn’t provide much relief for Morton. Once the day’s medical business was concluded, the women would drift over, sometimes in groups, sometimes alone. They all said the same thing: they just wanted to chat.
With so few facts at their disposal – Sunderam had twice postponed their second meeting – the conversations tended to follow the same pattern. The women would generally open with some type of speculation as to why they had been the ones to survive and then followed this up with various hypotheses as to what it was that the Yakutians intended on doing with them. The conversation would invariably end with the women asking Morton what she thought was going on. The first couple of times, she had made the mistake of answering honestly prompting two women to break down, thereby taking up more time than she reasonably had to spare.
She quickly realised her mistake. These women hadn’t come to her seeking the truth. What they really wanted – craved, even - was simple reassurance.
They wanted to hear that this had all been some terrible mistake. That the Yakutians would be punished for treating them so poorly and that last, but by no means least, this would all be over soon.
She started using a similar approach when makin
g health checks on the men and discovered that they were just as eager for support as the women, though they took a particular pleasure in hearing the details of how and to what extent she believed that the Yakutians would be punished.
A great many of them she discovered were troubled with various chest infections and breathing complaints. She wasn’t sure whether this came about as a result of their time aboard the escape pods or because the atmosphere aboard the Serrayu was so markedly different to what they were used to aboard the Mantis. Either way, it was a worrying development and one which proved unresponsive to the various drugs supplied by the Yakutians.
If things got too much for her and she really did need a break, the only way of guaranteeing some peace was to take herself off to the showers which were clean, efficient and blessed with an endless supply of hot water.
So it was, that on the eighth day of her captivity she had just stepped out of her shower cubicle. She had misplaced her towel somehow and as she searched about for it she became aware that she wasn’t alone.
Standing over by the entrance was Hermendal.
He said, “Looks like you’ve lost weight, doctor.”
“What are you doing here?” she demanded as she attempted to cover her nakedness.
Hermendal seemed not to notice, his eyes betraying his true concern as they kept drifting back to the doorway behind him.
“I thought that we should talk.”
His presence unnerved her. She grabbed a towel and began wrapping it around her. When she’d finished, she tucked the corner away in order to secure it, still unhappy with how much flesh she had on display.
“Then talk.”
“I’m having some trouble convincing them who I am.”
For the first time she realised that Hermendal was dressed in the grey wrap-around top of a medical orderly.
Act of War Page 3
