Atlantia Series 3: Aggressor (10 page)

While the captain was dallying with a known brigand, the Atlantia’s problems were mounting and becoming more serious with every passing day. The unrest among the civilians had become endemic and increasingly volatile, especially in the wake of the shooting of a farmer who was now being lauded by his peers as a model citizen who was merely defending himself against Colonial aggressors in the form of Bra’hiv’s convict-Marines. Mikhain was being asked to control the situation while the General and his better-trained Marines were messing about in the landing bay guarding a single unregistered vessel and its strange weapon, an energy veil of some kind.

Supplies were woefully low, including water, and yet no shuttles had been sent down to the surface of Chiron IV to replenish them despite repeated requests from the civilians. The sanctuary’s blue sky and clouds were limited in their ability to generate a true micro-climate, the space there not large enough to generate sustained rainfall and thus recycling was key to their continued survival. Sooner or later, stocks needed to be replenished.

Then there was the issue of the man found sick in his bed in the sanctuary. Mikhain knew that he was currently in the sick-bay under twenty-four hour guard, with no reports on either his condition or its cause. Many of the crew and civilians were fearful of a repeat infection of the Legion aboard ship, especially as it was being rumoured that a live Hunter was still being held somewhere in Meyanna Sansin’s sick bay. Combined with the captain’s insistence that the ship should follow a Veng’en cruiser home into its own home planetary system and attempt to enlist the Veng’en into helping humanity fight back, despite the fact that the species hated human it with all its black heart, support for the captain’s leadership was at an all-time low.

Mikhain turned and marched out of his cabin. Located just a few cubits from the bridge, on the opposite side from the captain’s quarters, Mikhain did not turn toward the bridge but instead marched in the opposite direction. He entered the elevator banks and travelled down through the ship toward the enlisted quarters, the billets where the majority of the crew bedded down.

Mikhain had made it his business to get a feel for the mood of the crew. Aboard a big ship like the Atlantia it was possible to be on cruise for months and still see new faces, which made it too easy for a senior officer to view the crew as a nameless mass of automatons. But Mikhain felt that monitoring them, having a good sense of their needs and wishes, made them the most powerful ally aboard the entire vessel.

Ensign Scott was invaluable in learning the chow-room gossip, but for a personal touch Mikhain liked to show up unannounced and let the men speak to him. Given the chance to air their grievances, and then being shown that action was taken to alleviate their discomfort or unhappiness, Mikhain had patiently and skillfully begun to win their allegiance a man at a time.

‘XO on the deck!’

The duty sergeant’s call as Mikhain entered the chow-room sent some eighty men bolting to their feet over their meals. Mikhain waved them down casually.

‘At ease gentlemen, don’t let your food go cold. It tastes bad enough hot.’

The men chuckled as they settled back down behind their meals, but the hum of conversation had fallen silent now that the Executive Officer was in the room and they listened expectantly as they ate.

‘A quick update,’ Mikhain said as he stood with his hands behind his back and surveyed them. ‘I understand that many of you feel that you’re working blind, unaware of what’s happening on the bridge and annoyed that you’re being kept in the dark when this ship is your home as much as it is mine and the captain’s.’

A ripple of agreement drifted through the hall.

‘I understand,’ Mikhain said. ‘All of our lives are on the line here, and it’s your right as much as it is mine to know everything that’s going on aboard the Atlantia. While I cannot divulge every little piece of information as it comes in, I can share the following: we are now within the Chiron system, which has a habitable planet still in orbit around a parent star, which itself is nearing the end of its life. In time, we hope to replenish our stocks before moving on.’

‘Moving on where?’ asked a petty officer.

‘That will be for the captain to decide. At this time, our objective is still to continue on toward the Veng’en system and…’

A loud barrage of curses and shaking heads assaulted the XO, and he sighed. Truth was, he knew that would be the response and that’s why he’d said it.

‘I know and I understand,’ he continued. ‘It makes no tactical sense but at this time we have no realistic military option against the Legion and insufficient strength to mount an assault on Ethera alone. We need allies, plain and simple.’

‘So find allies, not existing enemies!’ somebody shouted.

‘Or lead the Legion to Wraithe and let the damned Veng’en deal with it!’

A ripple of laughter rolled around the hall.

‘We’ve already got one of the leathery bastards living down in the sanctuary,’ another man called. ‘What’s next? Inviting the whole damned race aboard?’

More laughs, bitter this time.

‘Kordaz saved the lives of several of our people,’ Mikhain replied as their voices calmed. ‘He, perhaps alone among the Veng’en, has some understanding of humanity and is now a true ally. It may be hard to swallow and we may not like it, but Kordaz earned his place among us and I’d rather fight alongside him than against him. Kordaz is not the problem here.’

‘What about those damned machines being kept in secret labs?’ called a Marine.

‘Or that man who got shot in the sanctuary?’ shouted another. ‘We killing our own people now while inviting pirates aboard?’

‘The man shot in the sanctuary was attempting to protect his son, who is sick,’ Mikhain reported. The chow-hall fell immediately silent and Mikhain knew what was on their minds. ‘It is
not
the Legion,’ Mikhain cautioned, ‘that much I know for sure. Doctor Sansin is performing tests now to try to understand what has happened to the victim. As for the machines, there are no longer any Infectors aboard the Atlantia. Only a single Hunter is being kept in stasis aboard ship for tests, and it is not the type of Legion machine that can self-replicate itself – it’s too large.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked the Marine. ‘It’s a hell of a risk to have that damned thing aboard, isn’t it?’

‘We can’t learn how to defeat our enemies without first studying them,’ Mikhain pointed out. ‘The risk is worth the reward if it results in a means to prevent the Legion from advancing further. I’ll be back in a few days, and hopefully I’ll have some more answers for you.’

‘XO!’ shouted the duty sergeant.

The men shot to attention and Mikhain was about to leave when one of the soldiers stood up. The towering Marine with blond, short-cropped hair and angular features atop a massively muscled frame made his way toward Mikhain. The XO turned and walked out of the chow-hall with the huge Marine following, and as the buzz of conversation returned to mask their conversation he turned to the soldier, whose shoulders bore the insignia of a corporal.

‘What can I do for you, corporal?’

‘I was demoted recently,’ the corporal said, ‘unjustly.’

‘That would be the concern of General Bra’hiv,’ Mikhain replied. ‘You should take your concerns to him and…’

‘My rank was taken by Qayin,’ the corporal growled. ‘One of the former convicts that Bra’hiv holds so damned dear.’

Mikhain hesitated thoughtfully. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Djimon.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Six months ago,’ Djimon growled, his fists clenching at his sides.

‘I recall that the report says that you left Sergeant Qayin to die aboard the Sylph instead of covering his retreat.’

‘The Sergeant confirmed that I was mistaken in believing that he could not have escaped regardless of my covering him or not.’ Djimon replied. ‘I was still demoted.’

‘Qayin,’ Mikhain murmured. ‘A former killer-convict and gang leader. I presume you would like to take Sergeant Qayin to task over this?’

‘I’d like to skewer his guts on my bayonet,’ Djimon snarled, ‘sir.’

Mikhain nodded. ‘That won’t be necessary, but I can report that there are many officers and crew who are deeply dissatisfied with the captain’s leadership.’

Djimon’s expression changed instantly. ‘What do you mean?’

Mikhian was aware that the Marine knew precisely what he was suggesting. The XO could tell by the soldier’s Alpha Company shoulder insignia and his general demeanour that Djimon was a career Marine, a devoted soldier of the Colonial Forces. Mutiny or indeed any form of insurbordination would be anathema to him unless provided with the correct motivation.

‘We need a second voice on the bridge,’ Mikhain explained carefully. ‘The captain is taking too much upon his own shoulders and it’s starting to cloud his judgement. There is no Admiralty to act as a check to his actions and even I as Executive Officer am often ignored. I want to make him aware that his is not the only professional opinion aboard ship and that he needs to listen to his officers more keenly if we’re to survive this.’

Djimon’s eyes narrowed and he glanced over his shoulder at the chow-hall. ‘That’s why you’ve been coming down here giving these little pep’ talks of yours,’ he said.

‘I’m keeping the crew informed as much as I can,’ Mikhain replied. ‘The captain keeps trying to maintain the old model of
need to know
, but we’re not part of a fleet anymore and everybody’s live are at stake. I want people to understand the situations we’re involved in so they then understand our responses to those situations. People don’t like being kept in the dark when their lives are on the line.’

Djimon nodded slowly, watching the XO with wary eyes. ‘What would you have me do?’

‘Nothing much,’ Mikhain replied. ‘Just keep an eye on things under General Bra’hiv, let me know if anything starts happening that you think is out of order, any events that the command structure tries to sweep under the carpet, understand?’

‘What’s in it for the crew?’

Mikhain smiled. Djimon was indeed a model soldier, more concerned about the people and the ship around him than his own personal gain.

‘Information, clearer leadership, and hopefully a more cordial atmosphere and sense of mutual trust than we have right now.’

‘You want to share information?’ Djimon challenged. ‘You find out what Qayin’s up to. He’s often missing when off duty and nobody knows where he goes. He ensures the rosters are such that I’m always on duty when he is not, so I cannot follow him.’

Mikhain’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you think he’s doing?’

‘I don’t know, or I wouldn’t be asking would I?’

Mikhain nodded. ‘I will assign you briefly for some extra duties, and you can use that time to find out what, if anything, Qayin is doing.’

‘And that pirate ship we captured?’ the Marine asked. ‘More allies for the captain that none of us want?’

‘The pirate is an unknown quantity,’ Mikhain admitted. ‘He thought that we were an infected vessel so he ran. Now he knows we’re clean, he’s as interested in us as we are in him. He’s cooperating willingly with our inquiries.’

***

‘I’m not telling you anything.’

Captain Taron Forge slouched in a chair with his boots propped up on the edge of a table and one arm draped across the chair’s back rest.

‘We agreed we’d share information.’

‘We agreed we wouldn’t shoot at each other,’ Taron corrected. ‘The rest is open to negotiation.’

The captain’s dining cabin was larger than his personal quarters and had been designed specifically for entertaining dignitaries who did not wish to chat among the austere grey walls of the rest of the frigate. Panelled in beautiful, deep Etherean pine and with lush carpets underfoot, it seemed a world away from a ship-of-the-line in deep space.

Captain Idris Sansin leaned against one wall with his arms folded as he watched the smuggler before him.

‘You were leaving the system,’ he said. ‘What were you doing here?’

‘Sight seeing,’ Taron replied. ‘Have you seen the aurora down there on Chiron? Absolutely beautiful.’

‘I have the impression aurora aren’t really your thing, Taron.’

‘And what would you know about it?’

‘Quite a bit, actually.’

A screen on the wall of the room illuminated and data scrolled down it, dominated by two images of Taron Forge. The smuggler smirked.

‘Fame at last,’ he murmured, and he glanced across at Yo’Ki who was draped across another chair. ‘See, I was cute when I was younger.’

His co-pilot glanced at the images and shrugged without interest. Idris looked at the first image of Taron on the screen, resplendent in a Colonial uniform.

‘Taron Forge,’ Idris said, ‘son of the late Tyraeus Forge. You were commissioned as a fighter pilot in the Colonial Service and served five years before being dishonourably discharged for various crimes.’

‘Something I’m very proud of,’ Taron announced.

‘Drunk on duty,’ Idris read with interest from the screen.

‘It had been a tough day.’

‘Striking a senior officer.’

‘He deserved it. How we laughed, afterward.’

‘Dereliction of duty, causing the deaths of several fellow pilots…’

‘We were all being
sent
to our deaths,’ Taron said, all humour vanishing from his voice. ‘They all followed orders like little sheep. I didn’t and it saved my life.’

‘The admiralty seems to think that you were guilty of cowardice,’ Idris pointed out.

‘You
think
?’

The smuggler raised an eyebrow. Idris looked at him and knew that, whatever this layabout rogue might be guilty of, cowardice was not likely part of it. He had willingly engaged half a squadron of Raythons in combat only a couple of hours previously, and thus displayed a reckless but inspired skill for flying.

‘What happened then?’ Idris asked, ‘in your own words.’

‘Go to hell,’ Taron snapped back. ‘I already told the admiralty what happened years ago, and they decided to bury my statement during the Court Martial. I don’t answer to authority any more.’