Atlantia Series 3: Aggressor (26 page)

He activated the War Room’s veiling systems, designed to prevent boarders who had accessed the bridge from figuring out what was happening in the War Room. The dual-operation system allowed officers in the War Room to control the ship, whereas invaders on the bridge would have little or no idea of their presence.

Mikhain accessed a free comms channel and opened a link on a new frequency. For a moment nothing happened, and then a screen opposite him flickered into life and a podgy, oily face stared out at him with a bleary, sleepy expression. A gloomy private quarters was visible in the low light behind him, and what looked like a hybrid woman slumbered alongside Salim.

‘Whp the hell are you and what do you want?’ Salim uttered.

Mikhain realised that he was gripping the controls tightly as he spoke.

‘To resolve our differences in a manner that prevents any further loss of life.’

‘Get lost,’ Salim murmured and moved to shut off the link.

‘You’re being deceived.’

Salim froze in motion, his glistening black eyes staring at Mikhain. ‘By whom?’

‘By the captain of this ship,’ Mikhain replied, ‘who in my opinion is putting lives in danger.’

Salim’s eyes narrowed and he straightened up. ‘You’re the Executive Officer,’ he noted Mikhain’s shoulder insignia. ‘What’s happened? Finally got upset that your captain is half your age?’

Mikhain let a slow smile spread across his features. ‘The captain is almost as old as I am.’

Salim raised an eyebrow. ‘If so, he’s got far better genes and….’ Salim broke off for a moment. ‘Andaim is not the Atlantia’s captain?’

‘No,’ Mikhain replied. ‘You need to hear what I have to say.’

‘Who is the captain?’

‘All in good time,’ Mikhain snapped. ‘I want guarantees first.’

‘Guarantees of what?’

*

The vast lower hull of the frigate cast a deep shadow over the valley, the scarred and dirty belly of the spaceship sitting above where the solid ground had been cut away to provide support for the immense braces that held her in place.

Kordaz was no engineer, but as he crouched in the blackness beneath the huge ship he was forced to marvel at how Salim Phaeon and his ragtag group of pirates and slaves had constructed such an incredible dock. Each of the braces probably weighed a thousand tonnes, shaped from steel with the huge load-bearing ovals cast between them that must have taken hundreds of men weeks to construct. Ten braces in all cradled the vast ship, and countless more lengths of double-coiled steel cable kept the ship tethered in place, attached to both the upper hull and massive braces far out across the landscape.

The captors of the great Colonial vessel had been smart enough to place the frigate facing into the wind that gusted almost permanently off the churning ocean. Although Kordaz knew that the frigate was not capable of natural atmospheric flight, its ion engines, anti-gravity gyroscopes and directional thrusters were more than powerful enough when combined to allow for a controlled descent and landing on a suitable planetary surface.

Kordaz wondered briefly how the pirates could have achieved such a feat, and could only assume that many of the ship’s crew now made up the labourers striving to repair the damage to the hull and prepare the ship for space flight. He figured that if the crew were still alive, then Salim was not entirely unable to use the frigate effectively as a warship. If he were allowed to get her into orbit, he could represent a real threat to the Atlantia. Then again, if Captain Sansin were to double his strength with a second frigate, and then continued on his planned path to Wraiythe… Kordaz forced the thought from his mind and focused instead on the task ahead.

Kordaz looked up and saw men high on the scaffolds, showers of bright glowing sparks raining down as they laboured. The slaves were on a twenty-four hour work schedule, Kordaz having seen shifts moving back and forth from rest areas to the north of the frigate, simple tents guarded both by pirates and by the lumbering Ogrin. He had been unable to count accurately the ratio of prisoners to pirates, but at a maximum he figured about a hundred fifty pirates and maybe a hundred or so Ogrin, against at least a thousand slaves.

Four to one, if the slaves could be given the chance to fight back.

Kordaz slid down into the deepest recesses beneath the frigate’s hull, infiltrating a fissure fifty feet below the surface of the plain. The keel of the ship was so close above his head that he could almost touch it, and the cold wind whipped past him as it was funnelled and accelerated into the cavity below the giant hull.

Kordaz crouched down and moved fast, passing beneath the hull and climbing up the slope the opposite side. More showers of sparks drifted down ahead, the shouts and calls of men working high above carrying on the wind. He slowed, peering out from beneath the frigate as he sought the position of the nearest power generators.

He spotted one of them, barely a hundred cubits away, linked to the frigate via massive power cables as thick as four men. Each generator hummed in the darkness, powered by the miniature fusion cores contained deep inside. They would not give the frigate enough power to lift-off, for that could only come from her more massive internal cores, but they would be more than enough to power her internal systems, environmental controls, shields and perhaps even her weapons. The perfect protection against interference while she was repaired.

Kordaz rolled onto his back and looked up at the frigate’s vast, slab-sided hull and squinted as showers of sparks drifted down nearby like burning rain. The workers were engrossed in their labour and the Ogrin guarding them completely absorbed by their duty, having insufficient awareness for much more than one task at a time.

Kordaz checked his surroundings one last time and then he dashed out from beneath the frigate and raced across the open, illuminated ground until he was once again swallowed by the safety of the shadows.

The hum of the generators filled Kordaz’s ears and seemed to reverberate through the ground at his feet. A billowing cloud of blessed warmth surrounded them, heat vented from exhaust vents set into the rear of each generator, and he realised that he had long ago lost all sensation in his feet and hands. The warm ground heated his feet and the hot air swirled around him, and he stood for a few moments and allowed it to thaw his muscles and seep into his chilled bones until the numbness and aching subsided.

The sound of voices above the hum alerted him and he ducked down close to one of the massive generators as two swaggering pirates, both armed with plasma pistols, strolled casually by. Kordaz figured that they represented what passed for a security patrol down here, but their pistols dangled lazily from their hands and they trailed smoke from pipes in glowing clouds under the bright lights illuminating the frigate. As Kordaz waited, he noticed a faint glow on the horizon out over the churning oceans, the first hint of a fast approaching dawn.

Kordaz waited for a few moments until he was sure that they had passed,and then he studied the cables snaking from the generators, each standing higher than his own head. He crouched alongside one of them and touched the surface with his hand. Thick, insulating sealant that would be at least a foot deep protected the current-carrying cable within.

Kordaz reached down to his belt and produced one of the chemical explosives that Lieutenant C’rairn had provided him with. He moved back to where the cabling was attached to the generators via massive bolts and found the cooling fans, drawing heat from the massive generator’s interior and blowing it out into the otherwise cold night air. The cables were too large for the explosives he had been able to bring with him to destroy, but if he blew the cooling fans themselves then the generators would overheat all on their own within minutes, and that would shut down the power supply long enough for Atlantia to launch an attack.

Kordaz removed the fan’s protective grill and then reached up and attached the first of his eight charges inside the fan duct. Hot air blasted past his hand as he secured the charge in place, and then moved on toward the next generator. One by one, he slipped the explosives into place inside each generator and activated their detonation receivers. He reached the final generator and set the charge in place before turning and heading back the way he had come, seeking the safety of the shadows beneath the frigate.

He was almost there when he heard running boots rushing toward his position from all sides and a rush of shouts. Kordaz ducked out of sight as dozens of pirates flooded between the generators, weapons drawn and activated.

The Veng’en cursed as he saw them hunting for him, and drew his D’jeck with one hand as with the other he set the detonator for the charges down beside him on the dusty ground and slid it out of sight beneath dense foliage.

Kordaz moved from shadow to shadow away from the detonator, and then a loud shout alerted him to a pirate who was turning and aiming his pistol right between Kordaz’s eyes.

The Veng’en leaped into motion, the
D’jeck
flickering in the low light.

*

Corporal Djimon lowered himself down into the deep shaft of an access panel, his bulky frame barely fitting inside as he levered himself toward the inspection corridor that ran the length of Atlantia’s enormous keel.

He dropped onto the deck, his boots barely making a sound as he crouched in the darkness and peered into the distance. A row of ceiling lights each spaced two cubits apart stretched away into what seemed like an infinite distance, shadows between each pool of light and a cold, damp atmosphere clinging to his skin as he moved forward.

Sergeant Qayin had come down here before him, having snuck away from his duties with Bravo Company. Djimon had known that it would only be a matter of time before the criminal that Qayin truly was would reveal himself, and the corporal’s conviction that Qayin was behind the entire drug operation aboard Atlantia was now cemented. He had no business being down here – nobody but engineers and senior officers conducting routine inspections would ever bother to descend so deep into the ship’s bowels.

Djimon moved in a low crouch and eased his way forward. With Mikhain’s special duties clearance he could move freely through the ship, and that was just as well because the vast size of Atlantia would mean a long search. Djimon had known that the best way to start that search was to stick closely to Qayin, and now his plan had paid dividends.

He could not see the big sergeant as he advanced, but that was almost certainly because Qayin’s Devlamine stash would be hidden in one of the countless side compartments, access panels and storage areas dotted throughout the deep decks, even here at the keel. Djimon was no expert on engineering, but he knew that much of the ship’s used fluids, oils and lubricants were stored down here out of harm’s way in barrels that were then used as target practice for gunners and fighter pilots, their shots vapourising the chemicals and thus disposing of them.

Djimon edged forward, passing panel after panel, seeking some sign of where Qayin was headed, of where he had concealed his Devlamine. It had been six months since the encounter with the Sylph, the moment widely regarded as having been when the drug entered Atlantia. Six months of even covert cultivation could have produced hundreds of gallons of liquified Devlamine, ready to be consumed by ravenous addicts. Djimon figured he was looking either for one large stash, or lots of smaller ones. Either way, only a single hit was required to reveal both Qayin’s guilt and the success Djimon was hoping would see him reinstated as a sergeant and…

Djimon froze as he spotted an access panel ahead that caught his eye as slightly different from the rest. The lights hit the multiple doors with an even sheen that stretched away into the distance, but this one was scraped and mottled, the signs of recent and regular operation.

Djimon closed in on the panel, half as tall as he was and fixed only by simple braces. There were no locks on the panels down here and Djimon marvelled at Qayin’s audacity. Keeping the drug almost in plain sight, in a place where the sheer monotony of searching every single panel virtually guaranteed that they would not be found.

But then, not every searcher was Djimon.

He strode to the panel and opened the braces, the door sliding up under its own momentum via counter-weights at the rear. The pale light shafted inside the compartment, and Djimon saw rows of heavy blue storage tanks marked with signs warning of expended fuel. The corporal leaned in and popped the cap on one of the tanks, then sniffed the contents.

Sweet, sickly, a thick odour nothing like fuel.

Devlamine.

‘On the ground, now!’

Djimon jerked back from the tank and drew his plasma pistol as all around him from surrounding panels leaped armed Marines, their weapons pointed at him and their flashlights blinding him.

‘
Down down down!!
Drop your weapon!’

Djimon raised his pistol into the air as he dropped to his knees and called out.

‘Coporal Djimon, Alpha Company!’ he shouted. ‘It’s the Devlamine, I found it!’

The Marines surrounded him, rifles shoved in his face.

‘Drop the pistol, now!’

Djimon set the weapon down on the deck alongside him and put his hands behind his head as he replied.

‘Inform the captain, right now,’ Djimon ordered.

The Marines did not reply, and then a familiar voice called out to him.

‘Oh, we will corporal, we will.’

Djimon felt his guts plunge as he saw Qayin’s glowing tattoos flickering in the darkness beyond the soldiers and their flashlights. Djimon belatedly realised that all of the Marines were from Bravo Company.

‘I followed you down here, Qayin,’ Djimon shouted. ‘You knew where this stash was!’

Qayin’s white smile flashed in the darkness as he shook his head.

‘That’s odd,’ he replied. ‘I can’t remember anything like that happening. Way I see it, we wandered down here after you and caught you checking your stash, corporal.’

Djimon cried out and leaped to his feet as he reached out for Qayin, but he was slammed to the deck by the weight of half a dozen Marines and his wrists manacled behind his back. As he writhed and fought in fury, he heard Qayin’s casual tones.