Atlantia Series 3: Aggressor (3 page)

The Atlantia’s bridge was circular in design, mirroring an observation platform above it that allowed a panoramic view of the surrounding cosmos, and was accessed by two flights of stairs flanking the bridge. Arrayed around the edges were various command stations covering all aspects of normal operations, and in the centre was the captain’s chair flanked by that of his Executive Officer, Mikhain, and that of the Commander of the Air Group, Andaim Ry’ere. Both men stood to attention; Mikhain the older, shorter and stockier of the two, a veteran of many Colonial fleet actions, and Andaim the image of youth but already an old head on young shoulders, a fighter pilot by training and now commander of the Atlantia’s compliment of twenty eight Raython fighter-interceptors and three Corsair bombers.

‘At ease,’ Idris said to them. ‘Status?’

‘Super-luminal cruise stable,’ Mikhain replied briskly, ‘all systems fully operational but we’re increasingly low on fuel and supplies. We’ll need to drop out of super-luminal within a few hours now, captain.’

‘CAG?’ Idris asked.

‘All fighters fully operational, all crews rested and ready for duty sir,’ Andaim replied. ‘Two Raythons ready for immediate defensive launch when we drop out of super-luminal. We’re planning to reduce training sorties to conserve what fuel we do have.’

Idris nodded, and as he looked at his chair he saw another data-sheet identical to the ones in his cabin, half a dozen more tasks now blinking for his attention. He managed to conceal his irritation as he picked the sheet up and dutifully studied it for a moment.

‘Civilian unrest?’ he uttered as he read one of the notifications.

‘Some of the natives are a bit unhappy down in the garden,’ Mikhain replied with scarcely concealed distaste and using a slang name for the sanctuary that suggested nothing but rest for the civilians within. ‘We’re getting complaints about the working hours down there, managing the solar farms.’

‘They’d rather we all starve to death?’

‘There are a few vocal members clamouring for a say in what’s happening with the Atlantia. Since Counsellor Dhalere died, they haven’t got anybody to speak for them.’

Idris sighed and nodded. Dhalere had been infected by the Word and had died as a result, her bloodstream infested with countless tiny machines controlling her every movement, her every action. The Legion. By the time her affliction was realised it was too late and the resulting fight for control of
Atlantia
had almost ended their battle for survival once and for all.

‘There are rumours,’ Andaim added. ‘They’ve heard we’re pursuing a Veng’en ship and they’re not happy about that. Having a Veng’en living down there in the sanctuary doesn’t help much.’

‘It’ll do their zenophobia good,’ Idris replied. ‘And military matters are not their concern.’

‘We can’t keep them in the dark forever,’ Mikhain pressed. ‘I don’t like it, but right now I reckon keeping them informed of the situation might keep them contained. The last thing we need on our hands right now is an insurrection aboard ship.’

The Veng’en, a war-like race, had fought many long wars with humanity over the centuries, but the devastating effects of the Word’s destruction of mankind had overflowed into their own territories and now they sought out humans and murdered them wherever they could be found. In a near-fatal encounter, the crew of the Atlantia had managed to form a tenuous bond with the crew of a Veng’en cruiser and now, in the hopes of forming a stronger alliance with the Veng’en at large, Idris had ordered the Atlantia to follow the Veng’en home at a safe distance. It was an unpopular decision and Idris knew it, but he had a slight advantage in having a Veng’en ally aboard, Kordaz, who had seen through prejudice and realised that, no matter what had gone before, Idris Sansin and his crew sought to right the wrongs of the past and destroy the Word, whatever it took.

‘The people cannot rise against us,’ Idris replied, ‘because even if they did they would have nowhere new to run, nothing new that they could bring to the table.’

‘A lot of people don’t always think before they act,’ Mikhain replied with a tight smile. ‘That’s
our
job.’

Idris nodded.

‘Okay, increase the sentries around the sanctuary but do it quietly,’ he replied. ‘I don’t want the people thinking we’re deploying martial law. Send a few of General Bra’hiv’s Marines to act as eyes and ears down there and let us know what’s going on?’

‘Captain?’ Idris turned to see the ship’s communications officer, Lael, gesture to the main display panel. ‘The Veng’en cruiser has dropped out of super-luminal and her course has changed.’

‘Already?’ Mikhain asked. ‘We’re nowhere near their homeworld, Wraiythe.’

Idris turned to look at the main viewing panel. Entirely black during super-luminal cruise, overlaid on that featureless canvass was a limited stream of information drawn from the gravitational trail of the Veng’en cruiser they were tailing. The mass-drives that powered large vessels such as Atlantia at super-luminal velocity left a wake in space-time, much like a sailing ship through water. The subtle frequencies of the wake revealed information about the craft that had left it: velocity, heading and hull mass. The captain’s experienced eyes scanned the data, seeking information about when the cruiser had ceased super-luminal flight, usually revealed by a “back-wash” in the frequency of the wake as the craft’s deceleration produced a new signal that radiated back down its path of flight at an equal velocity.

‘It pulled out a few hours ago,’ he said. ‘Where is she now?’

Lael glanced down at her instruments as she replied.

‘The estimated coordinates suggest she’s in the Chiron system.’

Idris looked at Andaim, who spoke for the first time.

‘Chiron’s an outlying world,’ he said, ‘right out beyond the frontier of human exploration. Not much there because the system’s parent star is dying and consuming the inner, habitable planets.’

‘He’s right,’ Mikhain said as he examined a display console. ‘Five planets, three of them gas giants, two smaller terrestrial worlds. One of the smaller planets has likely already succumbed to the parent star, the other won’t be far behind.’ The XO frowned as he scrolled down his screen. ‘Unexplored mostly, but the system’s on colonial records as being a brigand lair.’

Idris raised an eyebrow. ‘Criminals?’

‘The system’s so far from Ethera and the local group of planets that it was apparently used by anybody fleeing justice as a haven,’ Andaim said. ‘Chiron’s planets are rich in minerals, but the distance was too great for merchant vessels to make much profit from trade routes and the dying star flares violently enough to dissuade pilots from heading there.’

‘Except those who don’t wish to be found,’ Idris murmured. ‘But why would the Veng’en stop there?’

‘Maybe they’re low on supplies too,’ Mikhain hazarded.

‘Or maybe they’ve realised we’re following them,’ Andaim countered. ‘We can’t be sure they’ll offer any quarter. They still don’t trust us.’

Idris stared at the data on the screen as he weighed the pros and cons of the Atlantia’s predicament, and then he made his decision.

‘We too are running low on supplies. Prepare the fighter screen for launch and bring us out of super-luminal on the edge of the system. If any unlicensed armed craft approach us without making contact first, blow them to hell.’

***

‘They’re not going to like this.’

Lieutenant C’rairn strode down a corridor toward the sanctuary, flanked by two non-commisioned officers and trailed by a dozen armed Marines of Bravo Company. Civilian contractors and petty officers leaped out of their way and pressed their backs to the walls to let the heavily armed troops through, their boots rumbling against the deck plating.

‘Ain’t for them to choose what they like.’

To C’rairn’s right walked Qayin, a six-foot-five giant of a man with alternating gold and blue locks that hung to his shoulders in tight braids and flickering bioluminescent tattoos that glowed like rivers of magma against his bitumous skin. Recently promoted to the rank of sergeant in the wake of the battle against the Veng’en cruiser, he bore his shoulder insignia with the same brash disinterest as the facial tattoos signifying gang-kills on the mean streets of Ethera.
The Mark of Qayin.
Like all of Bravo Company’s Marines, Qayin was a former convict who had once been a prisoner aboard Atlantia Five, the high-security wing towed behind Atlantia years’ before. Now, those former murderers, gang-bangers and drug-dealers made up one half of Atlantia’s infantry defence. The other half consisted of Alpha Company, made up of career Colonial Marines and led by General Bra’hiv.

As the Marines reached the sanctuary deck, more civilians watched them with suspicious expressions as they passed.

‘They’re afraid,’ the lieutenant observed under his breath, ‘of us.’

‘They’re supposed to be,’ Qayin replied. ‘You don’t get control without discipline.’

‘You don’t get help without respect.’

‘Respect has many forms,’ Qayin grinned tightly, his massive hands cradling a plasma-rifle as he looked down at C’rairn. ‘Don’t much matter if it’s love or fear.’

C’rairn did not reply as they halted at the entrance.

The sanctuary was a cylindrical sub-hull buried deep inside Atlantia that rotated to provide a natural gravity, rather than the quasi-gravity created by the powerful magnetic plating beneath Atlantia’s decks that pulled down on the iron inserts fitted to the crew’s uniforms.

‘Two at a time,’ Lieutenant C’rairn ordered them. ‘Captain’s orders are clear: observe, don’t provoke anybody, see what you can learn. Talk to the people, okay?’

The Marines nodded as one, most of them probably keen just to get into the sanctuary and away from Atlantia’s drab, cramped corridors.

‘Remember to re-weight your fatigues to zero before you enter the sanctuary,’ C’rairn reminded them. ‘I don’t what any of you landing in a crumpled heap, unable to stand up.’

C’rairn turned to the sanctuary entrance and hit a button. A shaft door opened, some three feet square and leading into a steeply declined chute made of a flexible, metallic material.

Because the sanctuary rotated within the Atlantia’s hull to create normal gravity, it was not possible to simply “walk” in. Instead, the flexible chute allowed access, dropping the entrant into the sanctuary via the gravity it created through centrifugal motion, the chute attached to it via disc-seals and bearings that allowed it to move freely as the sanctuary rotated. A similar system allowed crew members to exit the sanctuary at the opposite end.

Two Marines stepped forward and jumped into the chute one after the other with a six second interval - enough for the first to land and get out of the way before the next Marine landed on top of him. Each soldier removed his magnetic armour and dumped it in a steel bin beside the entrance before pulling themselves into the chute and vanishing as they accelerated away.

Qayin hauled himself inside the chute, his broad shoulders barely fitting as he dove in, and the tug of the sanctuary accelerated him gradually until he was flying down the chute. A waft of cool, clean air breathed across him, as fresh as heaven after weeks of heat and the stale odours of Atlantia, and then he flew out into mid-air and landed on a soft, deep pile of freshly cut grass. Bright, warm sunlight shone down on him and he squinted as he rolled to one side and landed smoothly on his feet, then stood up and sucked in a lungful of the clean air.

The sanctuary was a vast valley, its immense scope partly an illusion created by powerful screens that cast a vivid, bright blue sky overhead and a distant ocean stretching to infinity in the distance. Behind Qayin, a waterfall crashed into a cool lagoon from cliffs that marked one end of the sanctuary’s cylindrical shape, the other somewhere out across the distant ocean. Steep hills to one side and vast blue sky above completed the illusion of a Utopian paradise far removed from the cold, lonely vacuum of space outside the Atlantia.

Created as a reminder of home for crews serving aboard the prison-ship, the sanctuary now represented the only remaining part of home that was still populated by human beings. Most survivors of the apocalypse knew that in reality their homeworld was long gone, now the lair of the Word and its Legion.

Qayin watched as the last of the Marines landed in the sanctuary and gathered around Lieutenant C’rairn.

‘You all know what we’re looking for,’ he told them. ‘Rumours, evidence of conspiracy, any hint of discord among the civilians. No sudden moves though, okay? Let’s get the people to talk to us instead of barging into their homes and making them hate us.’

As they turned to leave a second platoon of Marines approached them, led by General Abrahim Bra’hiv, a squat and powerfully built man with shaved steel-grey hair and cold blue eyes. Alpha Company had been sent in to patrol first, easing the civilians into the idea of having soldiers in the sanctuary before letting Bravo’s former convicts wander about. The Marines of Bravo Company snapped to attention as Lieutenant C’rairn saluted.

‘At ease,’ Bra’hiv growled, his voice as rough as sandpaper.

‘Anything we should know about?’ C’rairn asked.

‘They’re as tight as a clam’s ass,’ Bra’hiv replied in typical fashion. ‘Nobody’s talking to us and they’re already suspicious of the patrols. Seems like they now consider the sanctuary their personal home and us as intruders.’

‘We don’t have time for this, baby-sitting civilians when there’s proper training to be done,’ C’rairn agreed.

‘Captain’s orders,’ Bra’hiv replied. ‘May not like ‘em but we’ve got to carry them out.’

Qayin was paired-off with a younger, junior-ranked soldier named Soltin, a wiry street-youth whose neck was laced with cheap tattoos mostly hidden by the collar of his fatigues. Qayin led the way, striking out across a grassy knoll that led down toward dense forest within which countless tiny homes were scattered.

The path ahead wound through a deep gulley lined with trees that climbed steep hills to either side of them. Qayin knew from much-cherished time spent down here for Rest & Recuperation that the gulley opened out onto an area of farmland that in turn met the “shore” of the ocean, no doubt where many of the oft-complaining civilians spent much of their idle time seeking new things to moan about.