Ravens By Starlight - IonFish
:: 07/16/01 ::
Chapter 3 - Living Reflection From A Dream
"It had become so pitch dark that we listeners could hardly see one another. For a long time already he, sitting apart, had been no more to us than a voice. There was not a word from anybody. The others might have been asleep, but I was awake. I listened, I listened on the watch for the sentence, for the word, that would give me the clue to the faint uneasiness inspired by this narrative that seemed to shape itself without human lips in the heavy night-air of the river." - Joseph Conrad, 'Heart of Darkness'
The long walk to the briefing room cleared Marnos' head; silent trudging down lifeless corridors revived him. He walked sedately, arms and legs still aching from newly healed injuries, but unaided by the two military police who hulked beside him. They seemed unsure of themselves, casting occasional furtive glances towards Marnos. The passageway was empty, save for himself and his two escorts. His uniform had been cleaned since the interrogation - he could smell the solvents. Crisp collar, polished badges - the picture of military order. Thoughts, questions, anger, all raging behind the calm exterior. The drugs seemed to have worn off: two days of rest, mind churning. No sleep - insomnia kept the dreams at bay.
Footsteps echoing from the polished floor - black, veined with white: fake marble tiling. Above, a curved viewport - looking out into the blackness of the void. This was the 'top' of the station, the panorama only empty space. Marnos knew that below him stretched a world, endless seas and green continents: he had not seen it during his whole stay. The view from his little white room was upwards, away from the planet of Deeron Seven, above which the shipyards floated, suspended in perpetual freefall. Isolated - normal life, whatever that was, denied. Marnos did his best to keep his eyes on the corridor ahead, but he found his eyes straying upwards, to the stars. A cough at his ear: one of the MPs. "It's here, sir."
Marnos turned, looking: a doorway, innocuous. He would have missed it had the man not pointed it out. He walked forward; the door hissed open. The MPs stood outside, waiting; ready in case they were needed, he supposed.
Once more, Marnos wondered what he was doing: what they were doing. The interrogation was probably legal, he judged. Barely - it had crossed the line a couple of times - but legal nonetheless. So why had they not continued? Had something - someone - intervened? And now he was here, for a briefing, the purpose of which remained shrouded in mystery. The MP had not known of any charges, any court martial. If they had wanted to arrest him, they would have done so. But they hadn't. Every question spawned a hundred more: frustration fuelled his anger. He walked through the door; a jungle predator, wary - he had been trapped before. Not this time. A circular room; dimly lit. Bluish-grey walls added to the gloom. The only light radiated from a yellow lamp that hung from the centre of the ceiling, suspended above an oval table, the reddish wood surface glowing. Its paltry luminescence illuminated three figures sat on the other side of the table, casually reclining in padded chairs. Datapads lay scattered across the table, used mugs and plates dotted between them. The hum of the station's power generator was loud in the silence.
Slowly, one of the figures raised a hand, gesturing Marnos forward. A voice: Citizen Natch's high-pitched nasal whine: "Do come in, Captain. Have a seat."
He walked towards the table, the tread of his footsteps silent on the carpeted floor. Seeing who the seated figures were, he automatically saluted.
"Captain Marnos, sir, reporting as ordered."
Three men: Natch, on the right. Straight ahead of Marnos, a staff officer with the rank of Major. To the left, set back from the table, an Admiral of Fleet Intelligence. They did not return his salute, but the Major gestured for him to sit. Natch's voice again: "Please, Captain. Sit down, have a drink." He pushed one of the mugs across the table. Marnos sat, slowly, not taking his eyes from Natch. Deliberately, he pushed the mug away, back towards Natch's bug-eyed face. The smile on the civilian's face froze. "Captain, this is not an interrogation. We are not here to determine what happened on the Starwind, or any such related matter. I apologise if the methods we used earlier were somewhat… brutal… but we had to know if you were… reliable. Colonel Halsh was perhaps overly thorough…"
How easy, thought Marnos. How easy to leap forwards, twisting mid-air, over the table; sliding the last metre. One arm outstretched: the edge of a hand crushing the Major's larynx - the other palm pushing outwards, pushing into the man's chest, slowing the dive. Staring into a face purple from lack of oxygen: smashed backwards into the wall behind as I barrel into him. Landing in a crouch - tearing the Major's sidearm from its holster, a flick of a thumb arming the weapon. Standing tall, vengeful: looking down into Natch's terrified eyes - his spirit wilting, lost in the realisation that the forces he had tried to wield were too strong for him, had overcome him. A squeeze on the trigger - once, twice, three times. The roar of the pistol filling the room: three fist-sized holes appearing in Natch's scrawny chest; blood splattering backwards onto the wall - trickles of red liquid dribbling down to form a dark pool on the floor.
Spinning, gun held outstretched, aiming toward the Admiral's head - the roar of gunfire echoing around the small room.
Pain riddling my body: impacts tearing me apart.
Collapsing backwards, slumping against the Major's lifeless body.
Darkness.
No chance - the guards outside rushing in when they heard the shots; a quick end the only consolation.
Marnos sat still, silent - angry eyes the only betrayal. Natch had paused in his discourse: seemingly taking stock of his words. "Such measures are sometimes necessary, Captain - as I'm sure you're aware from your time in the special operations division." A sharp barb - and a clever one. Natch was not the bureaucrat he appeared. A liaison, Halsh had described him as. An operator, certainly - a government appointee no doubt. An auditor, sent to keep an eye on the more secretive side of the military? Or a high-ranking messenger boy, handing down orders from above?
The Major coughed. "Lets get back on track here, gentlemen. We're not here to debate Special Operations methodology."
Why then, Marnos wondered, am I here?
The Major glanced at the Admiral, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. The Major turned back to Marnos. "We - that is, Intelligence, operating in concert with Central fleet command - have a new assignment for you."
Marnos nodded, waiting, wondering why the man seemed to feel the need to justify his words. The throb of the generator seemed louder now, an insistent hum in the awkward silence.
Natch pushed a datapad over the table towards Marnos. He picked it up.
"You may recognise this man, Captain. He used to be one of you."
Words echoing in Marnos' ears: the phrase "used to" striking dark chords as it ricocheted through his mind. "You"? Special Operations, then. Natch's voice continued unabated - background noise - while Marnos studied the picture.
Intense, dark eyes stared back at Marnos. Cold, hard: piercing his soul. Marnos shivered, forcing himself to look away.
"That is Colonel Garshak; the most recent picture we have of him. He may have… changed somewhat, since then."
Looking back at the picture, Marnos knew that nothing would ever change those eyes - diamond hard, they betrayed no emotion.
The Admiral spoke: heavily, slowly, words falling like leaden slabs; tainted with a distant sadness. "Colonel Garshak was the best. Our best. I don't mean that in a figurative way; he was simply the best soldier this navy has ever trained."
The eyes stared at Marnos, seemingly searching, stripping him naked with a glance. The eyes of a warrior? Maybe. But the eyes of a judge too; of cold analysis, cutting deep. Judging him.
"Eight months ago, he was entrusted with the command of a Special Operations battle group, and sent into the Lost Regions. As you know, the border is in a constant state of flux, as we regain territory from Imperialist forces, or they push us back towards the Central systems."
Garshak's hair was closely cropped: his nose, aquiline, jutted forwards - imperious, commanding. A strong jawline - a rippling scar puckered the chin. A big head, with a thick neck: a big man.
"The Colonel's mission was the destruction of two large Imperialist fleets operating in the Lost Regions, to enable us to send in more… conventional… forces to retake the area with a minimum of casualties."
The eyes were ruthless, yes, but… detached. They would not hesitate to kill, the eyes told Marnos, and yet there was something else there. What was it?
"Reports were to be directed by tight-beam transmission to a listening post in the Yalmarar system, just our side of the border. Two months ago, they picked up a transmission - the first since regular reports ceased three months previously."
The Admiral took another datapad, and pressed a key. Static hissed from it as the recording began to play - the sound of the stars, singing their eternal song.
A voice - low, gravelly. Garshak's voice. "Our hearts are filled with fire. But our eyes… do not see."
A shiver ran down Marnos' spine, nerves jangling as though touched by something powerful, intangible.
The voice continued. "Out here: in the cold, the dark, we are free. But freedom is… nothing… to us. We are prisoners, our minds shackled…"
The recording ended, and the room fell silent. The low hum of the generator seemed to scream in the silence.
At last, the Admiral broke the stillness. "We have received other transmissions…" he trailed off.
Natch coughed, taking up the narrative. "It appears that Colonel Garshak has gone… totally insane."
"Insane…" murmured the Admiral. "Quite so, quite so…"
Marnos nodded. "Insane, sir. Quite obviously insane." Agreement easier than the alternative - Garshak's eyes boring into him; seeming to question his whole existence.
The Admiral rubbed his forehead, his hand moving rhythmically over a furrowed brow. "Your mission, Captain, is go - out there - and… terminate… the Colonel's command."
Marnos spoke again, his voice hesitant, questioning. "Terminate, sir?"
Natch, his voice seeming to relish the words: "Terminate… with extreme prejudice."
"With extreme prejudice. Yes, sir."
The Admiral waved a hand, dismissing him. "You can go now, Captain… the Major will fill you in on the details."
Marnos stood, saluting. As he turned to go, Natch's voice whined loudly behind him. "We have absolute confidence in your skills, Captain. Don't fail us."
The sound of that voice felt like a icicle being slid between Marnos' shoulder blades. He stood still, clenching his jaw shut; controlling the urge to shiver. To his left, he saw the Major stand: taking a thin, rectangular black case from beneath the table, he walked around the table, and out of the room. Marnos followed, a few steps behind, feeling eyes on his back, their gazes boring into him.
* * *
Standing outside the dark room, in the light at last, the two men faced one another. The Major held out his hand to Marnos. "Raenar. Brakt Raenar." An offer of friendship? Or just another meaningless formality? He could not tell.
Marnos took the other's hand - it could do no harm, whatever the meaning of the gesture.
A nervous smile: the voice apologetic, a needy tone - searching for redemption in Marnos' reply. "For what it's worth, Captain, I'm sorry about what they did to you - that interrogation was way out of line." Then the inevitable excuse - "I don't have any say in internal matters; I'm just an analyst."
Marnos nodded, unspeaking. Cold anger burned within him: a choking presence lurking just below the surface. He controlled the impulses - kept his face impassive, stony.
A hesitant attempt: "Well, you'd better come with me… I'll give you a brief rundown of the situation, give you all your documentation, that kind of thing." Looking down at the datapad he held, as if to check a schedule - uncertainty emanating from anxious features.
Marnos' curt nod spoke impatience, surety - a façade, but a successful one: Major Raenar started to walk down the corridor, beckoning to Marnos to follow. Looking up and down the brightly lit passageway, Marnos saw that the two military police had gone. Some feelings of security returned; perhaps they trusted him now? Or had the whole interrogation been a sham, a shameless masquerade to hide an ulterior purpose?
The lift door hissed open as they reached it: the circular chamber three metres wide - a size that would be a luxury on board a starship, but on a station such as this it seemed part of the normality of the place. A slightly soulless place, Marnos thought, with its wide, starkly lit corridors, colourless walls and polished floors. Stepping inside, Raenar gravitated to one side of the compartment, while Marnos stepped deftly to the other. The Major studied the control panel before pressing a red button about two-thirds of the way down. A low tone sounded, and the button began to glow with a soft orange luminescence. That duty done, Raenar's eyes had nowhere to run: forced to stare across the small space to where Marnos leant casually against the cream-coloured wall. With a hum, the lift slid smoothly into the depths - Marnos felt a jolt in his stomach as the metal capsule accelerated downwards.
A certain sense of vulnerability seemed to emanate from the other man: a time to strike? He framed the questions in his mind, a predator ready to pounce. An angle: "Was there a particular reason why I chosen for this mission?"
A slight twitch: he seemed to have been anticipating the question, but the phrasing caught him off guard. A casual question, not the pointed demand Raenar appeared to have expected. The reply was a rehearsed one, but it was delivered in a slightly flustered tone: "I don't know… I suppose you were the best operative available."
"But I've been lying injured in that hospital for months. The Admiral said that regular reports ceased five months ago: the first transmission was over two months old - why was nothing done then?"
"As I said, I'm not really privy to that kind of information - it may just be that no course of action was decided upon until a few days ago." A weak response, as they both knew, but Marnos decided to leave it at that: pressing the issue might damage his chances of getting any information at all. Secrecy and distrust were the currency of Intelligence: it was possible that Raenar did indeed know nothing.
The Major glanced down at his jacket, and reached one hand inside the black tunic. From a pocket he retrieved a small datacard; green plastic, measuring about six by four centimetres; wafer thin. One side was a pattern of electrical contacts, and his name. The other was a small display: his own face stared back at him from the surface - the expression blank, eyes glazed. A military ID card: the vacant stares made everyone seem the same, the soulless pictures telling you nothing of the person within.
"That's everything official you'll need. ID, orders, special dispensations. Obviously, they don't state the real nature of your mission: all knowledge of that is in your head. Deniability, you know." A conspiratorial wink followed the last statement; Marnos wondered whether it was a joke.
"What special dispensations are there for this mission?"
Raenar looked down at his hands, ticking points off with his fingers. "To begin with, powers of requisition: you can take command of any reasonable number of assets in pursuit of your objective."
Reasonable? wondered Marnos. Where is the reason in war?
"In addition to this, local commanders are to render whatever assistance may be necessary to the successful completion of your mission."
Like a robot with its power supply drained, Raenar fell silent, leaving Marnos to ponder the accumulating oddities. The broad, discretionary powers he had been given: far above the norm for such a mission. The brutal interrogation, followed by what could only be construed as a brief apology, then a new assignment; madness piling on madness, as the lift fell down towards its destination.
<< Ravens By Starlight: Chapter 2 <<
>> Ravens By Starlight: Chapter 4 >>
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