Birthright: Battle for the Confederation- Consequence (2 page)

              Caho just mimicked Elco's stoic nodding and concentrated on her screens.  "You know what would make it a little bit better?"

              "Anything I can do to help."

              "Let's recover those spoofer torpedoes before they run out of fuel and disappear or self destruct.  They're the only ones we have left."

              Avenger maneuvered next to the derelict Crusader side by side.  Avenger's starboard shuttle bay, mounted on the sublight engine assembly, was mated up to the port side shuttle bay of the other ship.  The vessels were designed to be able to do just this, and in only a few minutes armored curtains had extended over the latching assemblies and an airtight seal was made.  The ships were joined.

              "Alright everyone," Loren spoke in raised voice to the small crowd milling about in the small shuttle bay.  Since the derelict ship was unpowered, the salvage crews wore lightweight EVA suits.  "You know your jobs so there's no need for me to waste time telling you how wonderful you all are.  Chief Fyr's people are first in since they have the hardest jobs to do.  Everyone else get over and start shopping."

              He turned and made a point of gesturing to Avenger's chief engineer, who ushered his people through the airlock and into the gloom of the darkened ship on the other end of the tunnel.  Loren knew time was of the essence; he and the captain had set the clock at two hours.  By that time, the tug's crew would have gotten confirmation that there was no recent battle in the area and ships would no doubt be dispatched to investigate.

              Loren strode purposefully through the darkened halls of the dead ship.  His flashlight beam lit up the corridors, creating a pool of light where he walked that chased the darkness away, if only for a little bit.

              It felt wrong, disrespectful, as though he was walking on somebody's grave to be scouring the ship for parts.  People had no doubt died onboard, and now he and his crew were picking away the remains.  He hoped they'd understand; he'd tell them this was the last ditch effort to save the Confederation, from enemies outside and in. 

              He was far enough away from the work parties aboard that there was no noise other than his own breathing and the sound of his boots scraping on the deck, at times accompanied by the crunch of his heels grinding some sort of dirt or debris under him.  The crews removing one of the hyperdrive reactors as well as however many gun emplacements as possible were best served by not restoring artificial gravity, so Loren wore reactive gravity boots.  He turned up the gain on his external microphones.  No shouted commands or exclamations, no tools dropping or torches hissing.  Just silence.  It seemed oppressive, like a pressure all around him pushing inwards.  It could quite possibly drive a person crazy under the right circumstances, he realized.

              He finally arrived at the compartment he was searching for.  It was four decks right below the bridge, for very obvious reasons in the heart of the ship and most protected from damage.  They didn't know much about the ship, but it had been a victim of a Priman EMP torpedo; the weapon had entered through the hangar bay and shut the ship down.  The vessel was poked full of holes and the engines were all wreckage.  Thankfully, the hyperdrive reactors were buried deep and didn't sustain any major damage; they'd been scrambled by the EMP weapon but otherwise had appeared serviceable to the chief upon his first inspection.

              What Loren needed on this solo mission was the main computer core, or at least parts of it.  He entered a large compartment, and while it was long and wide the ceiling hung low under the weight of layers of conduit and cabling.  There were even places where he needed to duck as he walked under junction boxes and access points.  This was the brains of the ship.  Without this space and the three story tall computer core, there was no life support, no navigation, no food or engines.  It was also what gave the ship its identity, through the various software modifications performed by the crew as well as the IFF assembly.  The Identification Friend or Foe system talked to any other IFF it could find and helped verify who was who on the battlefield. 

              Loren knew what he was looking for, and approached the access panel.  After unlatching it, he carefully propped the panel against the wall.  The main board was only about as big as his hand; it was the soul of the ship.  He read the little metal plaque:
CSS Resilience
, Ser No. 4525124.  Loren realized this number was older than Avenger.  This ship had lead a long life at least.  Hopefully she could live on to help her sister vessel with one more mission.  They were going to travel deep into Priman held space, and Lieutenant Caho had promised she could create an interface for the IFF chip.  If they needed a diversion, the
CSS Resilience
would come calling.  

              Web thought of fishing, of all things.  He'd only done it a handful of times in his life, but remembered every last time he'd been out.  Oceans, streams, lakes and even a gimmicky zero G setup at some tourist trap he'd visited on leave; he scrolled through them all.  Every type of fish was different; bait, how to present it, how to set the lure and land the creature later.  He loved learning the ins and outs of it, having fun while learning a survival skill and earning a tasty supper when he decided to keep the ones he caught.  He paused for a second to wonder why he was thinking about this particular topic, though.

              He was jarred to the present by a vicious slap to the face.

              "Prisoner!" he heard the harsh voice yell.  "I did not say you could pass out!"

              "Sorry," Web mumbled past his swollen split lip and parched tongue.  "May I
please
pass out?"

              He swore he heard the Priman almost laugh, but that might have been a stretch.  His interrogator paused and turned, though, leaving Web sitting alone.  He was in a small room sitting in an uncomfortable chair, hands bound behind him and attached to the floor.  He wore a plain white prisoner's jumpsuit that had long since become stained with dirt, sweat, and a few spots of his own blood.  Some of it was Priman, though, a fact he was extremely proud of.  The room was dimly lit, with the exception of the bright lights blasting down on him.  With the glare and shadows, he still hadn't seen the face of his regular interrogator.

              The interrogations had happened daily.  Well, Web wasn't really sure.  In classic use of psychological interrogation and torture methodology, they'd kept all the prisoners off guard at all times.  Sometimes they kept them together, sometimes it was solitary confinement.  There were no lights-off periods so their circadian rhythms were wrecked.  Meals were served at odd intervals; sometimes it seemed like they were one after the other and other times it felt like a day.

              The interrogations had varied.  First, they'd tried simple question-and-answer.  Name, mission, etc.  Then they'd tried good-guy/bad-guy on him.  Then it was just bad-guy.  After that it was a system of rewards offered.  But the latest was the worst, and Web knew sooner or later it would pry whatever it really was that they wanted from him loose.  It was some sort of mind probe used in conjunction with a chemical cocktail they shot him up with.  They asked him questions, leading ones that were easy to follow.  They didn't demand a response, just kept talking.  Then, the interrogator would stop and command Web to say something.  It was silly at first, and he'd usually blurt out some random thing; a former girlfriend, graphic obscenity, once even a recipe for a noodle dish he liked.  But last time he almost said something important.  They'd asked for his ship's name, and he'd almost said Avenger.  Since then, he'd tried to think of anything other than what they were talking about.  He feared the fact that he'd had no control over his reaction when they told him to say something.

              "It's just not ready yet," Web barely heard a different voice mutter behind him.  "On Priman physiology, yes, but most of these humanoids are different enough that our equipment isn't directly compatible."

              Only his Priman captors knew how it really worked.  The questions were indeed intended to lead the prisoner along, to make them think about the subject matter at hand.  In its highest form, for example, the interrogator would mention the Priman station where Web was captured, say he was a spy, say he attacked them in the middle of a fire.  Then they'd ask who his conspirators were, and he'd tell them.  It was basic wiring as far as the brain was concerned.  If someone said, "the color of your planet's sky is..." you'd think about the sky, think that it was blue, even if you didn't plan to say it; it was just a pathway in your mind.  The drug helped remove your internal filter.  When the interrogator prompted, the subject would simply blurt out what was on their mind once they made the mental connection: blue.

              "How long will it take to fix?" he heard the impatient interrogator's voice command.

              "It's not so much time as sampling.  I think I can fine tune it in a few weeks, probably less, but I will most likely need to run a few subjects to the breaking point and beyond.  Study their neural pathways and autopsy them to see where the connections are forming and where they're not."

              "Then start making your preparations.  You can begin with this one."

              Commander Tash sat at his desk as he listened to Terir report on the day's activities. 

              "We've stalled in the galactic core, then?" Tash asked brusquely.

              Terir didn't bother to sugar coat it.  First, he'd briefly been Commander long ago and knew what the Representatives needed to provide for their leader.  Second, his fate was tied to Tash, and the Commander in turn didn't bother trying to intimidate him the way he did with many others.

              "I'd say our current thrust is not getting results," Terir concluded.  "We should change directions, attack somewhere else.  Your advisors and I have prepared several other targets that will be suitable alternatives."

              "Good enough," Tash grumbled.  A chime from his comm unit snapped him out of his increasingly foul mood.  "Yes?" he asked.

              "Representative Ravine is outside waiting to see you," his aide replied.

              "Send the Representative in," Tash commanded.

              The Representative entered and waited for Tash to gesture towards a seat, which she took.  She was middle aged and still quite striking, by Priman standards as well as many other humanoids.  Despite being next in line for Commander and as a result soon to be one of the most powerful people in the galaxy, she still managed to seem accessible, approachable.  Tash had seen more than one of the Council pull her aside for a quick discussion in the halls of his headquarters building, much to his chagrin.  The Council needed to stay focused on their own jobs and let him attend to military and governance matters.  Ravine would have her day.  Probably.  Unless he managed to make a few more changes, extending his own stay as Commander.

              "You have news from the front lines?" prodded Terir, too old or jaded to look at her any longer than necessary to ask his question.  Tash, on the other hand, had to make a point not to let his gaze linger.

              "Yes, Representative."  She turned to Tash as well.  "When you are ready, Commander?"

              "Please."

              She quickly recapped the day's events as well as summarized some ongoing actions.  The status of the Confederation and its' civil war.  The Talaran Collection, in shambles.  The Priman efforts to colonize the former Enkarran Empire.  And finally, their drive through the galactic core.  They needed to span the center of the galaxy and consolidate power among the oldest and most powerful civilizations before they could take a breather.  The problem was that working through this spiral arm had taken more resources than they'd ever expected; they were slowing down, running out of ships and personnel.

              "I did have one more item which I thought was worthy of attention," she added when done with her prepared briefing.

              "That is?" asked Tash.

              "Yesterday, a confederation salvage tug was driven off from her charge, a decommissioned Crusader class ship.  When she returned, the Crusader was still on course, minus several key components; a main hyperdrive reactor, several external armor panels, four laser batteries, and her entire cache of 3D printing materials."

              "What's the connection?" asked Terir, though the smoldering look on Tash's face showed that the other man knew what it was.

              "Primans have no need to rob from ships like this.  The ploy was advanced, professional and well executed.  Based on these and other factors, I believe that it was Avenger trying to claim parts for her own repair."

              The words hung in the air.  Ravine had nothing to add, but Terir was reluctant to speak.  He opened his mouth once or twice, but changed his mind and remained silent. 

              "Surely there are other Crusader class vessels in need of parts on both sides of Confed's civil war?" Tash began unconvincingly.

              "True, Commander, but none that have any apparent need since their war is at a stalemate.  Also, we know the senator has decreed Avenger to be rogue and would be pursued by any Confed forces who saw them, which would give them a very obvious reason to acquire parts by such a means."