The Prisoner of Eldaron: Crimson Worlds Successors II (12 page)

Campbell took a step toward Melander, and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come, so he just stood there.

“That’s why you can count me in, Duncan. I don’t know whether Roderick Vance made a mistake back then, if Stark tricked him, if he could have prevented the bombing if he’d done something different. But that doesn’t matter. If we are facing another enemy, something like the Shadow Legions, there is no one else I’d rather have in charge than Vance…no one I am sure will be more ready to stand against whatever is out there, to do what has to be done.” He looked up at his old mentor. “And that’s what matters, Duncan. All that matters…”

Chapter 8

Epsilon-14 System

Approximately Four Lighthours from Atlantia Warp Gate

Earthdate: 2319 AD (34 Years After the Fall)

He could see her, a shimmering image in front of him, just as she had been that day so long ago. Her dress of Arcadian silk, her hair twisted into a series of looped braids, held in place with half a dozen jeweled clasps. Ingrid, his wife. Not as she was now, years older with that sadness in her eyes, but young and happy at their wedding, looking toward the future with no thought of the loneliness and disappointment that lay ahead.

He reached out, longing to touch her again, to feel her warmth, even on his palm for just a moment. But she was just beyond his reach, and his arm moved through the empty air. Then she was gone, and he saw only the solid gray metal of the hull. He was alone again.

Jackson Marne lay on the cold hard deck of the escape pod, weak, barely moving. The pod was a nightmare, a foul refuge reeking of weeks of sweat and shit and vomit. And dried blood.
Carlyle’s
captain lay in the middle of all of it, too weak now to stand or even to do much more than futilely reach out an arm, trying to touch an image that existed only in his hallucinating mind.

It had been weeks now since his improbable escape from
Carlyle
, and now he lay once again, out of supplies and waiting for death. Had he managed to survive his ship’s destruction only to live for a few more weeks, trapped alone in an escape pod? Could the unlikely streak of luck that had led him to his lifeboat have been for nothing, only to see him die now instead of then?

He’d been sure he was finished when he had overridden
Carlyle’s
control systems and opened the cargo hold to space. He’d disengaged the magnetic cradles too, and when the atmosphere of the pressurized hull rushed out into the vacuum, an emperor’s treasure in STUs went with it, cast out into the blackness.
Carlyle
had been carrying not refined ingots of the precious metal that could be gathered up, even in space, but vats of ores in need of processing. The granular material was blasted out of the hold and hopelessly scattered in seconds, denying the pirates who had attacked Marne’s ship the booty they had sought.

He’d known he would be blasted into space along with
Carlyle’s
cargo, but even slowly suffocating as his suit exhausted its scant oxygen supply was a merciful end compared to what the pirates would have done to a captain who’d inflicted heavy casualties and denied them a priceless treasure. But Marne’s naval training—and a huge amount of luck—had saved him.

He’d jettisoned
Carlyle’s
escape pods as well as her cargo, and by pure chance, one of them had drifted close to where he was floating in space. Then the old lessons kicked in, the emergency survival training he’d never had to use during his naval service. He maintained his calm, pushed back against the fear, and he focused on the nearby pod. He pulled his small oxygen canister from his back, sucking in one last deep breath before yanking the hose out and sliding his finger over the valve. He stared at the pod, his eyes fixed on it as he moved his gloved finger aside and allowed a burst of precious oxygen to blast out.

The escaping gas altered his vector, bringing him closer to a collision course with the pod. Closer, but not on target. His chest ached, his lungs screamed for more air. But the die was cast, he’d torn the suit’s hose from the canister. He would either reach the pod, or he would die in the next two minutes. He kept his eyes locked on the pod and angled the oxygen bottle, moving his finger, allowing more gas to escape. His vector changed again, but he was still off. It was going to be close, but he was going to sail by. And he wouldn’t have enough time to bring himself about for another run. Not before he suffocated.

This was always a longshot. You only had fifteen more minutes anyway. It was worth it…better to die trying to survive than to sit and wait…

His lungs felt like they were about to explode, and he could feel his consciousness beginning to slip away. Thoughts of his wife and his daughters drifted into his mind, the realization that he’d never see them again. But the navy training was still there, pushing everything aside, demanding he keep trying. He stared right at the pod, blurry as his vision beginning to fail, and he moved the air bottle. He knew it was his last chance. Part of him was already resigned to death, but there was still a spark, a last bit of strength that wouldn’t yield. He slipped his finger to the side, letting out a short burst of air.

He couldn’t see what his last effort had done. He closed his eyes, ready at last to let go. Then he slammed hard into something. The pod.

A flood of adrenalin gave him a last burst of clarity, and he reached out and grabbed onto one of the handholds. His momentum almost caused him to bounce off and sail past, but he held on firmly. He reached over, hitting the outside controls. He punched at the keys once, twice…finally, on the third try the control shifted to the side, and the outside hatch slid open.

He pulled himself inside, slapping at the inner lever as he did. His first effort hit this time, and the outside door snapped shut. His chest was in agony, his mind screaming for air. He could see the display next to the controls, the blue light of the bar moving slowly to the right as the airlock pressurized and filled with oxygen. He was almost gone, the last shreds of his consciousness slipping away. He had one last thought, to pop his helmet, and his hand pawed weakly at the latch.

He heard something, a loud click, just before the blackness took him. Then he awoke with a start. He was still on his back in the middle of the airlock, but each breath filled his lungs with cool, oxygen-rich air. His clarity returned, and he lay there for a few minutes, gathering his strength. He’d done it…somehow, he’d actually done it. He’d managed to get into the pod.

Don’t get excited. The pirates will be blowing you away any second.

Even if this group of raiders was less bloodthirsty than most, they weren’t likely to be merciful after the losses they had suffered. Still, he was grateful for the air, and he breathed deeply.

He slid over to the side, putting his hand out to help himself up. But he pushed too hard in the weightlessness of the pod, and he slammed into the ceiling. He felt a wave of pain. His chest on fire, and now he remembered how hard he had hit the hull. Movement in space was a strange experience, and he hadn’t exactly had pinpoint control with the oxygen bottle. He figured he’d broken some ribs, three at least, maybe four or five. But that didn’t matter. Pain or not, he knew he had to get inside the main cabin. The pirates would probably destroy the pod any minute, but until then he knew he couldn’t give up. He gritted his teeth and reached out, grabbing the handhold next to the inner door. He pulled himself up and punched at the control. The door slid aside, and he manhandled his way into the main cabin.

The pod was small, designed to hold two people. But it had three days of food and supplies…and an air recycler that could keep him breathing almost indefinitely. Marne made his way across the tiny deck, pulling himself down to the floor, reaching his arm into the loop of one of the harnesses. He lay there, waiting for the pirates to blow his tiny sanctuary to bits. He felt the seconds go by, then the minutes. Then he fell asleep.

When he woke up and glanced at the chronometer, he realized that hours had gone by. And he was still there. Had the pirates missed him somehow? Had luck intervened on his behalf again?

He moved slowly, and every millimeter of it hurt. His ribs were definitely broken, and the rest of his body was banged up as well. But he forced himself upright, toward the pod’s tiny control panel. There was a sensor display, but the screen was full of interference. As far as he could see,
Carlyle
was gone. So was the pirate vessel. But he couldn’t get a good reading. There was interference all around the pod.

Of course. The STUs. He remembered from his navy days. Transuranic elements wreaked havoc on scanning systems. Did that save me? Did it hide me from the pirates?

He’d spent the first few days waiting for the raiders to return, but nothing appeared on his scanner. Eventually, the pod drifted clear of the greatest concentrations of granular ore, but even then the scope was clear. There were some trace elements, some residual energy readings…enough to suggest that
Carlyle
had been blasted to atoms. He couldn’t be sure, but it made sense. The raiders had lost their booty, but they wouldn’t have left any evidence behind of their attack.

He’d eaten half rations, extending the three day, two person food supply to twelve days…and then he went hungry. He did what he could to treat his injuries, but that proved to be very little, and every day, the pain became worse. He knew he had internal bleeding, but there was nothing he could do about it. By the twenty-third day, he’d become too weak to move, to even drag himself to the water recycler for a drink.

It seemed odd to him, a strange sequence of events that had saved him only to let him die lying on the deck of the pod. His ship was gone, his crew dead. He was ready to face his end, save for one thing. His family. He longed to have on last chance, just to speak to them, to tell Ingrid how much he’d loved her, how sorry he was for the endless hours she’d spent alone. And his girls…adults now, though he still thought of them as the young children who had always been excited at his return…even after Ingrid had slipped into melancholy. He knew they had grown angry with them as they’d aged, and as they’d seen what his absences had done to their mother. And to them as well…the brief, passing moments he’d given his girls, a poor substitute for a life with their father.

They would never know. They would hear he had died, and they would feel a touch of sadness, and ache perhaps that they didn’t fully understand. And then they would forget. They would adjust quickly to his being gone, for that had always been their lives.

“Scanner contact.” The pod’s AI brought him out of his daydreams.

“What?” he said, drifting in and out of clarity. “Confirm contact.”

“Confirmed. Preliminary analysis suggests an Atlantia patrol ship,
Tradewinds
class.”

He could hear the AI’s words, but they seemed unreal. An Atlantian ship? Was he being rescued…was that possible? Might he see his girls again? Have a last chance to make things right with Ingrid?

No, he thought. I am hallucinating again. I am lost, and soon it will all be over. He could hear the sound of the AI speaking again, but he couldn’t make out the words. It seemed distant…and slipped further away. And then the darkness took him.

*  *  *  *  *

“Can you hear me?”

The voice was distant, strange…almost like an echo. A hallucination, like before. He ignored it, but then he heard it again.

“Captain Marne…can you hear me?” It was clearer this time, closer. Then he felt something. A hand on his shoulder?

His eyelids felt heavy, but he forced them open. Light…much brighter than on the pod. And shadowy forms, moving around, hovering over him.

“He has four broken ribs, and he is dehydrated and severely malnourished, but he should be fine. It’s a good thing we got here when we did.”

He heard the words, but the meaning came slowly. He wasn’t dead. Had he been rescued?

“Where…” He tried to speak, but his throat was parched, and he barely got out one word. He becoming more aware. His chest…pain. Every breath was a small agony. And there was something on his arm. He tried to turn to see, but as soon as he twisted his midsection, a wave of pain forced him back.

An IV? Then I
was
rescued. Is it really possible? Pirates? No, they wouldn’t try to help me.

He realized he was lying in a bed…in some kind of sickbay. He had been rescued!

“Don’t try to speak yet. You were extremely dehydrated, and we are giving you fluids and nutritional supplements. Just nod if you understand me.”

He moved his head slowly, first downward then back up in a serviceable nod.

“Very good. You are on the Atlantian Patrol ship
Zephyr
. Are you Captain Marne?”

He nodded again, moving too aggressively at first and feeling another sharp pain. But his mind was clearing, and despite the pain and weakness, he was beginning to feel better.

“Pirates,” he rasped.

“
Carlyle
was destroyed?”

“Yes,” Marne answered, nodding as he did.

“So the cargo was taken.”

It was another voice, from the cluster of men surrounding his bed. He didn’t think it was directed at him, but he answered anyway. “No…they…didn’t...get…cargo.” It was still difficult to speak, but it was getting a bit easier. Still, his throat was so dry. “Water,” he said softly.

“Okay, Captain, but just a little for now.” It was the first voice again. An instant later he felt something against his lips, a small glass. “Slowly now…”

The hand tipped the glass, and Marne felt the cool water hit his parched tongue. It was miraculous…he’d never imagined a sip of water could be so wonderful. He hunched forward into the glass, gulping at the water pouring into his mouth.

“Slowly,” the voice repeated. “You will just make yourself sick and throw it all up if you drink too quickly.”