by Jake Elwood
He knelt and put a hand on O'Reilly's arm, leaning on it a bit this time. O'Reilly didn't stir, though, not even when the injector pressed against his skin. The little device clicked, and Vinduly stood. A red circle showed on the inside of O'Reilly's elbow. There was no other change.
Vinduly opened the injector, removed the empty vial, and tossed it in the trash. “Well, that was nice while it lasted.”
“You did the right thing.”
The surgeon scowled. “Did I? You know he's just as likely to die anyway, don't you?”
“Well, now he's got his fighting chance.”
“Sure.” The man plodded over to his bunk. “I sure hope that was Quadrazine in those vials.” He flopped back and draped an arm across his eyes. “Do you mind getting the lights on your way out?”
No one dragged Tom from his bed during the night.
He woke feeling lethargic and heavy, Gamor's gravity pulling at him even more strongly than usual. He spent a long time staring up at the underside of the bunk above him, wondering if he might be sick. A case of Red Fever right now would be an ironic twist.
Hunger finally drove him from his bunk, hunger and the knowledge that he wouldn't get his morning cup of gruel if he waited much longer. That thought was intolerable, and he rose and stumbled outside.
He saw no tension in the few visible guards, heard no shouts, no signs of unusual activity from the Dawn Alliance side of the fence. He joined a crowd of fellow officers in front of the gate, waiting for the day's instructions with only a moderate lump of fear in his belly.
The gate swung open at last and a Dawn Alliance officer came through, a pudgy man with a data pad under one arm. He recited a list of duty assignments from the pad, grimaced at the gathered officers, and returned to his own side of the fence. The gate swung shut.
No pronouncements from Amar. No accusations.
No executions.
Tom led his platoon into the jungle, his anxiety easing somewhat. Much of it stayed with him, though. Even if Grumpy stayed silent, someone might notice a bruise, or the mud on his uniform, and demand an explanation. Grumpy might have already made a report. Amar could be waiting for the evening parade.
All day Tom directed his men as they excavated a vast pit in the middle of the clearing where they'd carved up so many fallen trees. If the tree cutting had been primitive and frustrating, the digging was much worse. There wasn't a single concession to modern technology. The men scraped dirt away with shovels and hauled it out of the hole in wheelbarrows. The ground, still wet from the rains the night before, was soft enough to bury the wheelbarrows up to their axles.
Only the fact that the men didn't care about their progress made it bearable.
“There's no need for sabotage,” Hoskins said sourly as they watched sweating, cursing men drag a wheelbarrow up a disintegrating mud ramp leading up from the bottom of the pit. “Four platoons together aren't a match for one modern excavator.”
Tom nodded sourly, wondering for the thousandth time if the UW even had a goal on Gamor beyond working a thousand prisoners to death. “Maybe it means they're losing. Their infrastructure has collapsed so completely, they can't even get modern tools to a work site. They've sunk so low that this actually makes sense.” He gestured at the pit.
“Sure,” Hoskins said, clearly unconvinced. “Why not?”
“Why not,” Tom agreed, and headed down the slope to help with the wheelbarrow. He was rested, at least in comparison with the struggling men, and he was filled with restlessness. Hard labor took his mind off the sense of guilt he felt, knowing he'd risked the lives of his fellow prisoners. Hauling at the wheelbarrow, dragging the wheel out of the sucking mud, felt like penance. It wasn't enough, but it was all he could do.
No one died at the evening parade. Amar did a quick inspection, announced that the war was going entirely in the Dawn Alliance's favor and that Garnet was soon to fall, and dismissed them all.
Finally Tom, his stomach in cold knots, headed for the medical hut to see if it had all been for nothing.
O'Reilly looked terrible. He was sitting up, though. He stared at Tom, silent and grim, as Tom found a stool and took a seat beside his bed.
“Well, hell,” Tom said at last. “That’s the last time I waste perfectly good Quadrazine on you.”
O'Reilly laughed. It looked like it was the last thing he wanted to do. For a moment he looked outraged with himself. Then the tension, the angry stiffness, seemed to drain out of him. His shoulders slumped and he said, “Well, you damn well better not do it again.”
“I won't.” Tom tried a small grin. “I promise.”
O'Reilly, to his relief, grinned back. “Good. That's settled, then.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Bloody awful, Lieutenant, thanks for asking.” He coughed. “I just might pull through, though.”
“Good,” said Tom. “I'm hatching a brilliant escape plan, and I'm going to need your help. It involves a ladder tall enough to reach a ship in orbit. I'll need you to hold the bottom.”
O'Reilly laughed. “Well, if anyone can get us off this rock, it's you, Sir.” He slid down until he was flat on his back. “No offense, Sir, but I'm about played out.”
“Sure.” Tom stood. “I'll leave you alone.” He nudged the stool under the bed and turned away.
“Captain?”
Tom turned back.
“Thanks.”
“You're welcome.” He walked out, feeling just a little bit lighter.
Chapter 15
Captain Harn Johnstone was a prick.
Alice sat in one of his visitor chairs, her hands shoved in her pockets to hide the fact that she was making fists. Bridger and Ham sat on either side, Ham's face carefully blank, Bridger's sour expression showing that he shared her low opinion.
“Let me just recap,” Johnstone said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his desk. “You two were captured by a United Worlds warship while committing acts of piracy.” He looked at Alice and Bridger, his expression full of amused contempt, then swung his gaze to Ham. “While you were part of the crew of a Dawn Alliance base.” He smirked. “And you expect me to believe you've brought me a priceless nugget of military intelligence about a Dawn Alliance prison deep in the Green Zone.”
Alice glared at him, wanting desperately to hop up and knock that smirk off his face. “It's all true.”
“Really,” he said.
“You have spy ships,” she said. “Surely you could verify this. You don't have to take our word for it.”
“Oh, don't worry,” he said. “I won't be taking your word for anything.” He leaned back, clearly amused. “Tell me. Do you have any proof at all of your … colorful claims?”
Alice jerked her shoulders up in a frustrated shrug. “Of course not. What do you think they were going to do, hand us a bunch of maps as they turned us loose?”
“As they turned you loose,” Johnstone said. “Fascinating, isn't it, how they turned you loose? How they saw you as trusted allies of the Dawn Alliance. But you somehow hope I won't see you the same way.”
“The crew of the Kestrel is on Gamor,” Alice said. “They'll still be on Gamor when you're done twisting our tails.”
“Really,” said Johnstone.
“Yes, really,” she snapped. “Every moment you spend being a prick is an extra moment they spend suffering God knows what at the hands of the Dawn Alliance.”
That, finally, was enough to take the smirk from his face. He touched a button on his desk and the door behind Alice slid open. Johnstone spoke to someone behind her shoulder. “Have these three been photographed and thumbprinted?”
A man's voice said, “Yes, Sir.”
“Good. They are to be considered suspected enemy agents. I want them escorted from the base. You'll keep them under constant supervision until they're outside. Understand?”
“Yes, Sir.” A heavy hand landed on her shoulder. “Let's go.”
Alice took her hands out of her pockets
, wrapped her fist around the man's smallest finger, and twisted. A yelp sounded in her ear and the hand vanished. “Don't touch me again,” she said, and stood. A pair of burly young men stood just inside the office door, the nearest man with his left hand curled protectively around his right. He looked angry and indecisive, as if he was deciding whether to go for the pistol on his belt.
“I'm done with this idiot,” she told him. “Let's go.”
The Rusty Rocket was a dockside bar that would have fit in well on almost any planet in the Green Zone. Well, except for all the UW spacers cluttering up the place. Alice glared around at them, thought about trying to start something, and ordered another drink instead.
The evening was fading into an alcoholic blur, details vanishing in the haze. She couldn't remember when Ham and Bridger had left, but she had a vague memory of shouting at them, venting her frustration on the only people who were on hand.
She wondered blearily if she'd ever see them again. They'd gone with her because she had a mission. That mission had foundered completely. She'd told the UW Navy everything she knew. It was the one and only thing she could do for Tom and his crew.
Now she was useless. Homeless and disconnected from her old life. Never to be trusted again by the Free Planets because she'd allied herself with the UW. Except the UW didn't trust her either. Tom had trusted her, but he was on Gamor, and on Gamor he would stay, because no one knew he was there except Alice. And who was going to believe Alice, she of the ever-shifting loyalties?
“Bloody hell,” she muttered, and took another drink. Except the glass for some reason was still empty. She spent a moment staring at it, befuddled and perplexed. Then she pushed the glass back into the dispenser in the middle of the table and tapped a finger imperiously on the tabletop. A drink menu appeared, and she pressed her thumb with exaggerated care on the image of a frothy beer mug.
Nothing happened.
She leaned forward, peering closer at the tabletop. Something had happened, just not the cascade of delicious libation she'd expected. A red rectangle was superimposed over the menu. She blinked, marshalled her concentration, and did her best to read the fat white letters in the rectangle. The text jumped and shifted, but she managed to get the gist of it.
The table thought she was drunk, and it was cutting her off.
“Stupid table,” she said, pulled her glass out of the dispenser, and banged it on the tabletop. “Gimme my drink or I'll thump you again.”
The table ignored her.
Fury rose within her, mingled with déjà vu. There'd been another bar before this one. A colony bar. Not a Navy spacer in the entire place. Proper acoustic music playing, not this synth crap mewling from the speakers here. A live server, who'd cut her off when she'd gotten belligerent.
Then tossed her out, when she decided to show him what belligerence really was.
“Stupid server,” she muttered, then banged her glass down one more time.
“Easy there.” A hand closed around the top of the glass and lifted it from her hand. “You'll break it. Cut yourself.”
She looked up, saw a blurry human outline, and stared until it resolved itself into a familiar face. “Bridger!” She smiled from ear to ear. “Am I glad to see you.”
“Um, good,” he said. “I need to-”
“You can get me a drink!” She gestured at the dispenser. “Stupid table thinks I'm drunk.”
“Imagine that.” He dropped into a seat across from her. “I want you to meet some people.”
“I want to meet my next beer,” she said impatiently. “Come on. Let's make with the pouring and the bubbling.”
“Fine.” He put the glass into the dispenser and tapped the tabletop.
Meanwhile, other people kept walking up and sitting all around the table. She recognized Ham and gave him a wink. The others were strangers. She tried to count them, figured there were either two or three, and decided she was in no shape to do advanced math.
“Here.” Bridger shoved her glass toward her. “Drink up.”
“I'm way ahead of you,” she said happily, and grabbed the glass. It felt much too light, and when she tilted it up, only an ounce or two flowed into her mouth. It wasn't beer, either. She tasted mint and vinegar, the unmistakable flavor of an alcohol scrubber.
For a moment she sat there, her cheeks puffed out, the unpleasant mixture sharp on her tongue. She thought about spitting it back into the glass. After all, she'd put some real effort into getting this drunk.
But Bridger and Ham had sought her out, despite her condition, despite the way she'd been acting. And they'd brought people to meet her. Something was going on. A corner of her mind that wasn't yet blinded by alcohol told her the time for self-pity and indulgence was over.
She swallowed.
Conversation flowed around her, idle chatter about the weather, the war, the latest zeroball game. They were passing time, she realized, while they waited for her to sober up a bit. That embarrassed her, which she took as a sign the scrubber was beginning to work.
Her stomach, a beacon of warmth radiating well-being through her body only moments before, contracted into a hard knot. Sweat sprang out on her forehead, and she belched, then gave Bridger a resentful look across the table.
She was sober enough to read the look he gave her in return. Don't blame me. You did this to yourself.
Alice pushed the dirty glass through the disposal ring in the tabletop, drew out a new glass, and filled it with water. She took a deep drink and sighed.
“You want another scrubber?” Bridger said.
She shook her head. “Not unless you want to see me puke.” She pushed the water glass away and looked around the table. The new arrivals – there were three of them – were colonists. Spacers, by their clothes. She said, “What's this all about?”
“My name is Ernst.” The man in the chair beside Alice was burly, the forearms he rested on the tabletop roped with thick muscle. “This is Liesl and Kara.” He frowned. “You have to understand that this is all second-hand. The man I spoke to said he was there, and I believe him. But I can't say for sure that he spoke the truth.”
“All right,” Alice said.
“Leisl was with me when I heard the story. She'll speak up if I get any details wrong.”
A blonde woman across the table nodded solemnly.
“We heard this two, three months ago,” Ernst said.
“Almost three,” Liesl interjected.
“We were in the guild hall in New Panama, looking for a ship. These two came in, a man and a woman. They told us a story. They were on a ship called the Vanessa Cardui. A little armed freighter. They did legit cargo runs, and they did some unofficial things, too.”
Meaning it was a Free Planets ship, harassing and stealing from UW cargo haulers. Alice nodded.
“They had this contract,” Ernst went on. “When New Sheffield fell, most of the Strads pulled out. A few of them stayed in the Zone, though. Spies and the like. The captain of the Vanessa got contacted on the sly.” He smiled, remembering. “This Strad spy wanted him to take some prisoners off Gamor.”
Alice sat up straighter in her chair.
“It seems an officer in the Silver Guard made it off Gamor. Some kind of prisoner exchange. So some of his men tell him they'll wait two weeks from the day he's released, and then they'll break out of the prison camp and head for Bull's Head Mesa. It's this big flat-topped hill sticking up out of the jungle. Easy to see from the ground. Easy to spot from orbit.
“So the Vanessa waits until the designated date, and she slips into the system all quiet-like. And they scans the top of the mesa, and there's a campfire burning up there. So they wait for nightfall and they take the ship down, and there's a whole crowd of raggedy-ass prisoners, all of them starving and dirty, and they pile aboard. And the Vanessa runs like hell.” Ernst leaned back and folded his arms across his thick chest.
“And?” Alice demanded. “What happened?”
Ernst shrugged. “The DA wasn't
in the rest of the Green Zone back then. They dropped the prisoners off on Novograd and collected their pay. They said no one ever came after them.”
“But … that means they know where the prison is!” She made a frustrated gesture with her arms. “The United Worlds hasn't always gotten along with the Strads, but they're allies now, right? I mean, they're both at war with the Dawn Alliance. They must be sharing information.” She scowled. “That prick Johnstone must have already known I was telling the truth.” Her scowl deepened as she realized she'd come all this way for nothing. “But why aren't they doing anything?”
The three of them batted it around for a while after Ernst and his companions left. For Alice it was a welcome distraction from the churning of her stomach. She sagged in her chair, feeling wretched, as Bridger ticked off possibilities on his fingers.
“There might have already been a rescue. It could have happened weeks ago. It might not have made the media. People keep things secret during war, right? Or there might be a rescue plan in the works.” He folded his index finger and touched the tip of his middle finger. “They might think a rescue is impossible. After all, Gamor is deep behind enemy lines now.” Another finger bent. “They might think it's a trap, an attempt to lure a bunch of ships into their end of the Zone. The prison is just bait.” He touched his pinky. “Or they might decide all the intel they have was out of date by the time they received it. Anything could have happened since we left Gamor. The prisoners could all have been moved. A fleet might have moved in. Anything.”
A gloomy silence descended. Alice doubted a rescue had already taken place. It would be too much of a morale booster if captured troops were brought back from the heart of enemy territory. “How feasible do you think it would be for the UW to do a rescue?” she said.
“I bet they could do it,” said Ham. “The Sarens did something like that a year ago. They were taking prisoners, not freeing them, but it was the same basic idea. They sent one troop carrier almost all the way to Kristal. Marines dropped into a big Coalition fortress. They captured a general and half his staff and grabbed a bunch of data cores and bugged out before the Coalition could react.”
