The Firestorm Conspiracy (22 page)

“Are you the captain of the UESF
Firestorm
?”

“Captain John Thompson, United Earth Space Force, Commanding Officer UESF
Firestorm
, seven-three-two-two-five, one-oh-one-nine, three-six.”

“What was your mission in our space?”

“Captain John Thompson, United Earth Space Force--”

“Who were you sent to contact?”

“Captain John Thompson, United Earth Space Force--”

“What is the current location of the vessel
Firestorm
?”

“Captain John Thompson--”

“What are the orders for your ship?”

“Captain John Thompson--”

“What are your orders?”

“Captain John Thompson--”

“Where is the
Firestorm
?”

“Captain--”

He sat on the bench in his cell and contemplated how much longer he could last before he tried licking the wall in a desperate search for moisture. His pulse tripped as a slot at the bottom of the door opened and a slender, alien hand placed a bowl inside and withdrew. The slot closed and plunged him back into blackness. He crawled on all fours and approached the bowl, careful not to accidentally overturn the contents. He sniffed and instantly recognized the smell.

Bird Barf
, they’d called the slop during the war. A thick, albeit nutritious, paste of pre-digested food--the same thing hatch-nurses fed to their charges until they were old enough to fend for themselves. John shuddered as he raised the bowl to his mouth.

Most POWs refused to eat for as long as possible, but he needed to keep his strength if he hoped to escape his imprisonment. Certain the
Firestorm
wouldn’t remain in the system for long, John knew he had to act fast. With little hope for rescue, he resolved to find a way out or die trying.

* * * *

Each time they took him out for questioning, he memorized more of the route to the interrogation room--constantly searching for clues as to where the intersecting corridors might lead. During his time alone in his cell, he meticulously searched the door for any sign of weakness, and when his fingers grew raw from the exercise, he would sit with his eyes closed and visualize the corridors outside.

The questioning sessions became more unpleasant. The avians tired of his answers. He always responded in English, refusing to reveal he understood their language. On a couple of occasions he’d overheard a few of his captors discussing his situation. The latest discussion was disturbing, but still shed no light on the exact nature of the event they were waiting for.

“Where’d Cleep say we’re dumping the chimp?” asked the guard with the prominent forehead. Iggy, as John thought of him.

“He doesn’t want a trace of the vermin left behind, you fuzz-brain, so we aren’t dumping his carcass,” replied the guard with dark green facial markings. In his mind, John called him Oscar because he was always grumpy.

“What’re we doing with it then?” asked Iggy.

“We’re waiting until we get the signal,” answered Oscar.

“Right,” replied Iggy. Iggy wasn’t the brightest guard in the compound, John noted. Iggy waited a few moments, and then asked, “What signal?”

Oscar swatted Iggy across the back of his head and said, “You fuzz-brain, don’t you pay attention to the briefings?” Oscar kicked John in the shin as he walked around the chair. “As soon as we know the chimp is no longer useful, we’re going to cut him up into little pieces and incinerate his rotten corpse.”

“Oh,” said Iggy. “I remember now.”

* * * *

The slot at the base of the door opened. Hands placed his usual bowl inside. This time, however, the slot didn’t close. Instead, a head appeared, peering into the cell, studying him. He froze. The avian didn’t say or do anything, and John wasn’t about to move or talk. He was tired of being a spectacle for these aliens; tired of being poked and prodded, questioned and beaten. His cell was the one place he was allowed some peace, and he wasn’t about to perform like a lab rat in a maze for the alien staring at him through the food slot.

The avian’s steady gaze grew increasingly uncomfortable. John wished he’d go away so he could eat his bowl of supper and forget about what the future held for him. He’d taken to letting his thoughts wander back to his time on board the
Firestorm
; wondering what the crew were doing, and even imagining he was back in command. Despite his imprisonment, he found he had no regrets about agreeing to help Nate out. He’d spent the past two decades hiding from life because of the guilt he felt over his wife and daughter’s deaths.

The guilt remained; he doubted the scar would ever fade, but the fear was gone. Burned away by the passion and satisfaction he found in his role as the commanding officer of the
Firestorm
. Nothing, not even torture at the hands of the avians, took away the sense of peace he felt whenever he thought about his time on the warship. Death, while not something he looked forward to, held no fear either. He’d lived more fully in the past three months than he had in the past fifteen years. For the first time since the loss of his family he felt alive, and he was grateful.

His desire to live, and to keep on living, sustained him during the violent interrogations. He was determined to make the most of the remainder of his days, even if they were spent as a prisoner of a war that had not yet begun.

He wondered why the avian seemed so fascinated. Perhaps he hadn’t seen John up close, or perhaps someone organized a bet to see how long the avian could look on the alien before chickening out. Either way, John wanted the scrutiny to end. Taking in a deep breath and pursing his lips, he looked the avian right in the eye and said, “Boo.”

The avian’s eyes went as wide as saucers and the slot banged into place. Plunged into darkness, and privacy, John tilted back his head and laughed.

When Rebeccah arrived in the brig, she found Targersson sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head cradled in his hands. A thick sheet of blast-shield-rated glass separated his cell from the main area. She dismissed the guard at the station, walked over, and stood staring down at him.

He looked like hell.

He stared at her, bleary-eyed. “What do you want? I told the shrinks I don’t want to talk.”

“Those same shrinks told me you’re suffering from an intense depression.”

“I’m not depressed,” he growled. “Leave me the hell alone.”

“Have you listened to yourself lately?” she asked. “I don’t care what you want to call it. You’re not the same man who joined our crew two years ago.”

“People change.”

“Not this much, and not this fast. Not without a reason.”

“Are you going to charge me with insubordination? Try and get me dishonorably discharged?” he asked.

Rebeccah sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “You’re not leaving me with much choice. Without some sort of explanation or revelation of extenuating circumstances, I’m afraid you’re backing me into a corner.”

“Figured.”

“I don’t want to see you dishonorably discharged,” she replied, “but you can’t serve on my bridge if you’re going to attack me and question my orders.”

“Your bridge?” His voice dripped with scorn. “Your bridge? It was never supposed to be your bridge.”

“If you think I wanted this--”

“I know you don’t want this, that’s what’s so galling,” he replied as he stood and approached the glass. “First you go and choose
him
over all the capable officers on board, and then you take the chair for yourself as soon as he screws up the mission and gets everyone killed. All the while, people like me would give anything to have the opportunity to step up.”

“Why didn’t you apply to take the Bridge Officers’ exam?”

“I did.” Targersson began to pace. “Three times.”

“And?”

“And that bastard, Forbes, refused to approve each one.”

“Did he give you a reason?” she asked.

Targersson snorted. “Yeah, some crap about having too much ambition and not enough dedication to the welfare of my subordinates.”

“Why didn’t you come to me after the accident? I would’ve let you argue your case.”

“I figured you’d at least consult me before making your decision.” He shrugged. “How was I supposed to know you’d choose him?” He paused and approached the barrier. “Cheng would’ve made a better captain.”

“Is that what this is about?” she asked. “The accident?”

Targersson crossed his arms and looked away.

“Look, I’m no counselor, but I’ve served long enough to know that sometimes good people die.”

“He wasn’t supposed to die!” Targersson moved to the rear of his cell and huddled against the wall. “None of them were supposed to die.”

Her limbs tingled as all the blood rushed to her abdomen. Did he mean--

“Miller to Cmdr. Santiago.”

Rebeccah forced her feet to propel her to the guard station in the center of the room. “Santiago here, go ahead.”

“Sir, we just picked up a faint transmission.” Rebeccah glanced back at Targersson, trying to determine her priority.

“And?” she asked.

“And,” Lt. Miller paused and took a deep breath, letting the air out in a nervous rush. “Sir, I think it’s Captain Thompson’s emergency transponder.”

* * * *

“Report,” Rebeccah called as she strode onto the bridge.

“Sir,” replied the ensign at communications, “at sixteen-twenty-two hours, one of the aft arrays picked up a faint repeating signal. Due to the repetitive nature of the signal, the computer automatically ran a database search for similar or matching signals and patterns.

“At sixteen-twenty-three hours the computer reported a match and the results were routed to my terminal. I verified the transmission, and sir,” the ensign said, breaking into a huge grin, “I can say with absolute certainty we found Captain Thompson’s emergency transponder.”

“Can you pinpoint the signal?” Rebeccah asked.

“Cerces III, for sure, sir,” she replied. “We’re pretty far away from the source, so I can’t be more specific than that.” She looked down at her console. “I’m sorry.”

“Ensign, you have nothing to apologize for,” Rebeccah said. “Are you sure it’s not an automatically generated signal? Perhaps someone accidentally turned it on?”

“I thought that at first, sir,” the ensign replied, “but the beeps don’t match the standard transmission pattern for our transponders.”

“Play it for me.”

“Aye, sir.”

The bridge filled with the sound of static and white noise as she pulled up the transmission file. Amongst the whine and wheeze of the recording a clear, but weak beeping could be discerned.

“Can you filter out the background static?”

“No, sir,” the ensign replied. “This is as clean as I could get the recording without washing out the signal itself.”

“All right, how long did it broadcast for?”

“The pattern repeats three times then stops, sir.”

“What is the pattern?”

The ensign shook her head. “Nothing I’ve ever heard before. I ran it through the computer too. It’s not UESF standard code. It’s not even old fashioned Morse Code.”

A series of beeps and pauses crackled through the bridge speakers.

One beep. Pause. Twelve beeps. Pause. Nine beeps. Pause. Twenty-two beeps. Pause. Five beeps. Pause.

Rebeccah ran through a list of basic codes and gasped. “Ensign, confirm: the pattern is one--twelve--nine--twenty-two--five.”

She held her breath as she waited for confirmation. If she was correct…

“Confirmed, sir. Pattern reads, one--twelve--nine--twenty-two--five.”

Rebeccah fought the urge to leap from her chair and cheer. The simple alpha-numeric code spelled one word: A--L--I--V--E.

“Helm, reverse course for Cerces III, maximum speed.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Congratulations, Ensign. Your care and attention to detail may have helped to save the captain’s life.”

The ensign beamed. “Thank you, sir,”

“I want you to boost the output on the forward arrays as much as possible. Divert power from the others if necessary. If his signal is broadcast again, I want to capture the strongest transmission possible.”

“Aye, sir.”

She hoped they weren’t flying into another trap.

John landed in a heap of bruised limbs on the floor of his cell. The interrogation had been long, monotonous, and painful. In the end, the avians resorted to injecting him with a serum designed to reduce his resistance to questioning. His body reeled from the side effects of the drugs. He couldn’t recall the specifics of what he’d said, he was horrendously dizzy, his hands and feet were swollen, and wave after wave of nausea wracked his body. He lay, shivering in the dirt, waiting for the symptoms to wear off.

The slot at the base of the door slid open and he groaned. The light sent spiking bolts of pain into his brain and his stomach revolted at the thought of food. He waited, breathing quickly and shallowly, for the slot to close and his cell to be plunged into blissful darkness once more. When the light continued to beat into his skull, he cautiously opened one eye and discovered the avian face staring at him again.

“Leave me alone,” he groaned through swollen lips as he tried to turn his back to the voyeur.

“You have to get out of here,” the avian replied in heavily accented English.

He hunched his shoulders against the intruding voice. “Go away.”

“They’re going to kill you.”

“Go. Away.”

“They found your ship.”

John’s soul bled. He must’ve told his captors everything.

“You need to get out of here.”

“Are you going to help me?” he asked sarcastically. The avian was silent, and John expected the slot to close, leaving him alone with his guilt.

The alien on the other side of the door coughed and shifted slightly. “Yes,” he whispered.

* * * *

John awoke from a dream where the dead avian agent from the clearing had come to his cell and offered to help him escape. Kree had quickly outlined his plan, explaining that he’d already signaled the
Firestorm
in the hopes the ship would return to the planet. He huddled cold and stiff on the floor and dismissed the dream as yet another side effect of the drugs. He crawled slowly and painfully over to his sleeping bench, needing to escape the brutal chill of the ground.