Glory Main (25 page)

Mortas reached out his good hand and gently stroked Trent's cheek. “You're one hell of a psychoanalyst, Captain.”

“About time I got to ply my trade.”

His hand dropped to the tear in the side of her uniform, the ugly rent outlined by a stain of dried rust. He shook his head as he pulled the fabric apart, the bright interior lights showing him that the wooden spear had left a long, shallow gouge in her side but hadn't harmed her otherwise.

“I saw you pull that thing out. Took both hands. I thought it had gone right through you.”

“It was hung up on the uniform, that's all.” She rose with an expression of satisfaction. “Take more than that to kill me.”

 

CHAPTER 12

A
part from taxiing on the exploding runway, Trent never did get to actually fly the Wren. Without a pinpoint destination on the planet Sere, the tiny ship automatically took up an orbit that allowed them to look down on the mass of dark, barren rock. They'd been discussing the wisdom of putting out a distress call when the ship's console began to beep loudly and then the Wren's nose simply dropped. Moments later the engines kicked in hard, driving them straight toward the surface, and Mortas felt his empty stomach trying to climb out through his throat.

As Sere had no atmosphere there was no friction to slow them down, and the windshield was quickly blotted out by ugly crags of rapidly approaching rock. They both reached out and grabbed the control panel with stiffened arms, a reflex action as pointless as shutting their eyes or turning away, and the Wren began to vibrate with the straining engines. Every light in the cockpit and cargo bay lit up simultaneously, and a voice boomed at them as if a giant were speaking directly through the hull.

“Occupants. Speak in a clear voice and identify yourselves. You have one minute to impact.”

They stared at each other from the pilot seats, astounded by the unknown technology and transfixed by the ship's unchecked acceleration. Some sort of loose box whipped past them, crashing into the bulkhead next to Trent, but she showed no sign that she'd noticed. Mortas recovered first, figuring this had to be Glory Main because whatever had taken hold of them could destroy the ship without revealing the presence of the headquarters. No fighters, no rockets, just the wreck of a crashed shuttle on a dead planet. An oddly Cranther-­like thought came to mind just then.

Cowardly fucks. Developed this incredible anti-­ship device and kept it a secret just so they could stay hidden.

“This is Lieutenant Jander Mortas, Human Defense Force! I carry priority intelligence, given to me by a deceased Spartacan Scout! Do you hear me?”

The ship nosed over further, now pointed directly at the ugly ground miles below. Mortas felt his back straightening, his feet reaching for the deck so that he was practically standing up in the seat's harness. The bones of his right hand suddenly began to compress painfully, but when he looked he was only slightly surprised to see that Trent had grabbed hold of him. Her eyes were wide, staring down, and her cheeks vibrated from the clenching of her teeth.

“I say again, this is Lieutenant Jander Mortas! Carrying vital information concerning a new enemy weapon! Information passed to me by Corporal Tel Cranther, Spartacan Scouts! Do you hear me?”

It was impossible to know how much time they had left, but his eyes swam with vertigo and he finally understood they were simply going to slam into the deck below. A giddy rush passed through him, the awful sensation of falling with nothing to slow him down and the stark reality of his impending death. He twisted in his seat, grabbing Trent's vise-­like grip with the hand from his injured shoulder, and she added hers on top of that.

“They don't believe us,” she blurted, her eyes on his and her breath coming in short gasps. “They don't believe us. All this way and they're just going to murder us.”

The truth of it hit home, and Mortas felt the mad jitter of panic starting to rise in his chest. His heart was thundering with the ground's approach, and he squeezed back at Trent's hands with all his might even though pulses of electricity seemed to be shooting through his shoulder.

This is it. This is really it. No Glory Main for either of us. No hot chow, no safety, no homecoming, nothing. Will they even tell Father what happened?

Father.

“This is Lieutenant Jander Mortas, and you'd
better
listen! My father is Olech Mortas, Chairman of the Emergency Senate! Do you hear me? Olech Mortas! Does that name sound familiar?” His voice broke as he shouted, but their speed didn't change a bit. As if mocking him, the beeping from the console was joined by a warning buzzer barely audible over the roar of the engines and the rattling of the fuselage. Though unable to read the Sim indicators and other signals, there was no need to wonder what this one meant. “Answer me, damn you! Whoever you are, you will
not
survive the
shitstorm
when my father finds out what happened to me!
And he
will!
”

He glanced at the nose, terrified to look but too scared not to, the sight of the approaching rock paralyzing him. His mouth hung open, and a low moan drifted up from his very core.

Here it comes. Please don't make it hurt.

“Jander.”

He looked at Trent, who was wearing an expression of complete serenity. He tried not to show his terror, but it was too much and he couldn't even answer. When Trent spoke, it was with utter calm.

“Thanks for getting me here, Jan.”

His horrified psyche almost didn't register the words, and he never got to ponder them. The Wren's nose lifted with a jolt, throwing them both back into their seats as the engines powered down like a loud sigh. The alarms shut off, but the silence was broken when the compartment filled with commands.

“Lieutenant Jander Mortas! Your shuttle is being diverted to a quarantine bay. Do not attempt to take over the controls at any time. Do not attempt to leave the ship or open any of its hatches until told to do so. Any violations of these instructions will result in immediate destruction of your craft and everyone aboard. Do you understand?”

“We understand.” His ears were filled with the sound of his pounding heart, and he tried hard not to stutter. His mouth opened and closed uncontrollably, and he was only able to release Trent's hands with difficulty. “I'm accompanied by Captain Amelia Trent and we have a deceased Forcemember with us, Chartist . . .” Too traumatized for shame, he looked at Trent. She appeared to be in shock, her eyes round and staring at him, but she recovered quickly enough.

“Roan.”

“Chartist Roan Gorman.”

There was no reply to that, but the ship leveled out and went skimming down a black canyon toward an unknown destination.

“Jander.”

“Yes?”

“Your dad really is Senator Mortas?”

“Yes.” He wetted his lips. “I didn't want to trade on his name, so I was keeping it a secret. Besides, it didn't seem important until now. Sorry.”

Trent's mouth hung slightly open, and she turned her face toward the windshield with a look that was half surprise and half dread.

T
he Wren followed a tortuous path down a long system of dark ravines, as if imitating the mode of travel that had hidden them the last few days. The voice didn't return, and they left the controls alone as the craft slipped gracefully along. A short time later they passed under an overhang that hid them from view, and just after that a section of the rock moved out of the way to reveal a lighted hangar.

The ship slowed as it passed into the landing bay, and the stark difference between the unmarked rock and the technological vault made Mortas feel as if he'd just traveled through time. In the space of a few yards he'd gone from pre-­human desolation to smooth walls of white metal, gauges, lights, ladders, and hatches. He felt his breath catch in his throat as he took in the marvels of modern, civilized living, and he remembered believing at one time that he would never see them again. His mind went back to the moment they'd abandoned the Insert, when they'd crested the first hill on what they believed was an empty planet. He'd looked back on the wrecked piece of equipment with genuine longing, and now felt as if he'd come full circle.

Home.

The ship came to a stop, hovering over a yellow circle painted on the floor and slowly turning in place before touching down. There were no other ships in the bay, but that wasn't surprising because the voice had said they were going into quarantine. Trent touched his sleeve and pointed toward what appeared to be a row of black spacesuits standing against the far wall.

“Banshees.”

Even as he watched, the spacesuits began to move like robot soldiers. He now saw they were actually the armored fighting suits that the Force used on non-­Hab planets and in any encounter in space where the atmosphere could be lost. He'd received a brief familiarization in that gear just a few months earlier, and had come away tremendously impressed. Oxygen, water, food, and weapons were all part of the package. A suited soldier could run faster, jump higher, and hit harder than any human who'd ever lived. A soldier in one of those suits could be dropped into an ocean and simply walk out.

The armored outfits contained titanic hydraulics, which had rendered the strength differential between males and females moot. The Hab planets were the most common battlegrounds of the war and, because they didn't require the expensive fighting suits, the units that fought on them were almost all male. The Force did contest for possession of less hospitable environments, however, and so most of the units that specialized in suited combat were made up of females collectively known as Banshees. The helmet on the combat version of the suits completely hid the occupant's face, so Mortas was puzzled by Trent's observation.

“Banshees? How can you tell?”

“See the chest and groin armor? Where the color's lighter?”

The squad of armored suits approached before separating into two columns and smartly marching into position on either side of the ship. Now that Trent had mentioned it, Mortas noticed that the black plating was smudged in an almond color on the upper torso and where the legs came together.

“I see it. What's that got to do with the Banshees?”

“When they go into battle they paint breasts and vaginas on their suits to let the Sims know who they're fighting. Command absolutely hates it, and as punishment they have to wash the paint off by hand after the fighting's done. Takes hours.” She grunted in respect. “Doesn't stop them, though.”

The voice came back just after that, and Mortas realized he couldn't tell if it was male or female.

“Lieutenant Mortas and Captain Trent. Your port hatch will open in one minute, and you will exit the craft with your hands held high. Carry nothing with you. Do you understand?”

Trent still wore Cranther's skull cap, and Mortas thought of the two knives that had belonged to the scout. Healthy annoyance flowed through him, and he responded in a snarl. “I'm carrying two knives that were the property of the deceased Spartacan Scout I mentioned. I'm not giving them up.”

A trace of anger came with the answer. “Lieutenant Mortas, you will obey all commands or you will be executed on the spot! You will carry nothing with you! Do you—­”

A female's voice confidently interrupted the transmission. “I think we can handle a fighting knife, Control. Even two.”

The voice didn't reply to that, but the port hatch opened as predicted. Mortas gave Trent a big smile and a squeeze on the shoulder as they unbuckled their harnesses, and then he took the lead as they went to the exit. Raising his hands as far as his injured shoulder would allow, he bent over and stuck his head out to find a ramp had been rolled into place. Walking down, he was pleased to see that the Banshees held their weapons ready but not pointed at him or Trent. Knowing how they both looked, him with several days' beard, both of them covered with dirt and worse, and Trent's uniform ripped where the spear had miraculously missed her, he supposed they didn't appear to be much of a threat.

A lone figure stood facing them, and from the condition of her armor she was probably the group's leader. In addition to the discoloration on the chest and groin, her suit sported numerous abrasions and what appeared to be a patch where something heavy had hit her. She wasn't carrying a weapon, and gestured with an armored glove as she turned and started to walk. She didn't look back, and the same voice that had let him keep the knives came from somewhere in her suit as they followed.

“I'm taking you to decontamination now. They'll be burning your uniforms, boots, and any other articles of clothing, so if there's anything you want to keep—­like a knife or two—­set them aside when we get there.” Mortas heard a mechanical whirring behind him, and both he and Trent looked back to see a set of scrubbers descending from the bay's ceiling toward the Wren. The other Banshees had moved away from the ship but kept it under a watchful, helmeted eye.

“One of our ­people died getting us into orbit, his body's on board. He was a member of the Holy Whisper.” Mortas faltered, unsure. “Is there something special we do for them?”

The Banshee kept walking, her heavy metal boots ringing on the floor plates. “Special? How long have you been in the zone, Lieutenant?”

“Long enough.”

She reached out with a gauntleted finger to punch a button on the wall next to a large hatch, and it glided open. Inside was a spotless white room, but what caught their eyes was a pair of transparent cylinders that ran from floor to ceiling. Mortas had undergone a practice decontamination once before, but it had been little more than a group shower for new lieutenants and they'd laughed their way through it. He looked over at Trent, who was regarding the tubes in obvious alarm.

“What is it?” He asked in a low voice. “Claustrophobic?”

“You could say that.”

They passed the Banshee and approached the tubes. Up close they weren't quite as intimidating; the clear material was hard and immaculate, and there was enough space inside to reach out with both arms almost to full extension.

“See? Not such a tight fit.”

“Sure.”

The Banshee spoke again, pointing at a long white bench that was bolted to the floor. “Please strip down to your skin. Anything you want to keep, leave on the bench. Once it's been deconned you'll probably get it back. Everything else just drop on the deck.”