WOLF DAWN: Science Fiction Thriller/ Romance (Forsaken Worlds) Page 17

  Both doctors remained still with wide eyes, aghast.

  “Can it be done?” The tone of Neopol’s voice indicated that a negative reply would not be well received, even from fellow colleagues.

  A short-period memory wipe was noncomplex. One needed to simply hypnotize the subject; then, while in a hypnotic state, tell them not to remember. A simple command like “You will forget your visit to Delian” was quite effective. It was this idea that they planned to introduce into the crew’s mind. The real problem came about when one was implanting a new memory. First mindtap might be needed to discover the subject’s existing memories. Some of those memories might assist in giving the artificial implant more depth.

  Dr. Smith finally replied, “Large sections of crew can be implanted en masse, section by section, provided the implant is not too complex. Depth will be provided to senior personnel only. Yes, it can be done.”

  Neopol smiled. “The crew is to know that Delian was gassed and that Captain Forseth and the crew of Darla Wu were responsible. The motive for Forseth was a woman, the Queen of Delian. How long before you are finished?”

  The twitch in Smith’s eye jumped. “Creating the holovid will take two days and administrating the implant will take two more. Conqueror will need to be on autopilot while the crew is put to sleep. We’ll need an explanation for their unconsciousness.”

  “Yes, of course.” The Admiral’s eyes narrowed. “Get it done.”

  “Yes, sir.” They got to work.

  Lieutenant Commander Gene Pagett sat alone in his quarters, taking a much needed break. Working in such close proximity with the Admiral was unnerving. The man was professional, competent … and frightening. He remembered the Admiral’s irritation over the corpse on Delian.

  There was something inhuman about Neopol. Pagett had been promoted after Barlow’s death to Captain of Conqueror. Ordinarily he would have been thrilled. Now he was worried. Barlow had everything to live for. Why had he killed himself? It didn’t make sense … unless he was driven to it. His Icom had been blocked, so Pagett had been unable to talk to him. A few days before his suicide, Barlow had walked around with a hunted expression, his every action watched by the evil puppet Janson. The Admiral said that Barlow must have committed suicide due to a guilty conscience. Apparently the Captain had intentionally let some Delians escape. If that was the case, Pagett admired him.

  Pagett resolved to look up Barlow’s wife during his next leave. Poor woman. Someone should explain the circumstances of his death. Perhaps she would find solace in the visit of her late husband’s best friend.

  An Icom message came in, alert flagged. It was from the Admiral.

  Captain Pagett jumped up. He had been called to meet the Admiral in the officer’s lounge. Working with the Admiral was probably going to give him an ulcer. While Janson, the Admiral’s aide, made him nervous, the Admiral terrified him. There was no escape, however; he would have to ride it out and pretend all was well. It was six months before his next leave. He could apply for a transfer then.

  Neopol nodded at the Captain’s arrival and said, “We have a few things to discuss.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pagett replied, maintaining a neutral expression. An orderly arrived with a colorless beverage and placed it next to him. He was about to protest, when Neopol intervened.

  “It’s on me,” he said, with a wave of the hand.

  “Thank you,” Pagett offered meekly. It was a strong drink, some sort of gin, and one that he would not have chosen when working. In this case he was going to drink it anyway.

  “Captain,” Neopol began. “If you were to attempt to hide Conqueror from another vessel while near Delian, how would you go about it?”

  “Well, sir, I suppose the best way would be to monitor the ship and remain out of sight. We would need to activate the communications blanket so that our emissions would not be detected. Feasibly Conqueror would be concealed behind Delian itself, but to be on the safe side I would suggest hiding behind one of her moons.”

  “Excellent,” the Admiral said, then rose to his feet. Pagett stood up.

  “I’m afraid I must ask you to hurry your drink, Captain,” Neopol ordered. “There are some emergency procedures I want to drill.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Pagett replied. Afraid Neopol would be insulted if he didn’t drink it, he downed the rest of the glassful in one long gulp.

  “Right then,” said Neopol. “Let’s get to the Bridge.”

  Pagett walked after him. His throat was burning and his face was on fire. Worlds of Perdition. Who could drink that stuff straight?

  On the Bridge, Neopol fired questions: “Where is the ship’s destruct device? What would happen during an emergency if half of the Bridge crew were wounded or killed? When does the autopilot activate? How is it done? If the entire crew of the Bridge were disabled, would the autopilot take over?” The questions seemed endless. Was it a test? After a drink like that?

  “Very well, Mr. Pagett.” Neopol smiled. “We will continue these drills every day until I’m satisfied. We can’t leave anything to chance now, can we?”

  Two days later, after twice daily drilling, Pagett was back doing the same exercises with the Admiral, answering question after question. Eventually Neopol said, “Now let’s discover if you can demonstrate your competence. Activate the autopilot with our current course to Delian.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pagett said, setting the controls.

  “Good. Very good,” Neopol said with a large smile on his face.

  Finally, thought Pagett. Maybe I passed the bloody test.

  “Excuse me, Captain. I’ll be back in a moment. Stay at your post and leave the controls as you have set them. When I return, we’ll continue.”

  Pagett held his tongue. What? Was the man off to the toilet or something? He had so much work to do and he was stuck here, waiting. “Aye aye, sir.” He saluted smartly as Admiral Neopol left the Bridge.

  Neopol went straight to the detention deck. “Well, gentleman? Are we ready?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dr. Smith replied. “A soporific will be released into the ventilation system. Unconsciousness will be instantaneous and we’ll need to wear masks for an hour. The crew will remain unconscious until we supply the antidote, also via the ventilation system.” Smith paused as the twitch in his eye jumped. “Each crewmember will be supplied with a small amount of nourishment through skin patches. They’ll wake in good health but hungry; their suspicions won’t be aroused.

  “Good. You have two days to accomplish your objective. Stay on stimulants.”

  “Yes, sir,” Smith replied, handing Admiral Neopol a mask. Each man put their masks on.

  “At your command, sir,” Smith politely informed him.

  “Fine. You may begin.”

  Smith nodded his head and pressed the button that released the sleeping gas into Conqueror’s air supply. Within moments, the crew dropped to the floor at their posts.

  Darla Wu moved through normal space on its way to Delian, unaware that Conqueror was lying in wait for them.

  “Captain?” Drake spoke from the pilot’s console. His Captain and best friend sat on the Bridge, and for the moment he appeared to be absorbed in a memory. He was looking at the holoshot of the Lady Sartha. Embarrassed and not wanting to intrude on so private a moment, Drake turned his head away as Forseth put the picture back in his breast pocket. “Sir, I estimate we’ll make planetfall in thirty-six hours.”

  “Very well, Pilot.” Forseth stood and nervously tapped his fingers on the back of his chair. His left hand was in his pocket. Drake knew that he was rolling his lucky marble with the blue stone back and forth in the palm of his hand.

  Malcolm Drake frowned. He knew all about the Captain’s lucky talisman, and how he held it whenever he was unsettled. The Captain had been edgy ever since he boarded Assurance. It was the Lady, no doubt, but it was having a queer effect. A confident man, Forseth had a “Do or die” and “to hell with them anyway” attitude. Now he snapped at everyone.
If the Captain had ever felt overly concerned before he had never shown it.

  Yes, Drake decided. His friend had changed. Without conscious thought he recalled the war on Stridos. Working with local police, they had safely landed, right on the front line. Their mission was to set a pulse bomb that deactivated armaments. The shockwave would kill every combatant within a ten-kilometer radius. All previous efforts towards reconciliation had proven futile — one nation stubbornly refusing to obey the cease fire. They intended to stop the fighting. If their comparatively moderate efforts failed, the UWG would use “The Device” and millions would die.

  Drake flinched with the memory. A sniper had found them after the ordnance had been set to blow in less than fifteen minutes. He had shot the sniper but in return he had been hit in both legs.

  He put his hand to the injuries. He had been hit by a burn bullet, which left a consuming fire that had continued to eat away a large portion of flesh after initial contact. He had opted not to repair the scars; he wanted to remember. Drake’s face hardened. As if he could forget.

  Unable to move, he had lain where he had fallen. White-faced and strained, his legs burning like molten metal, Drake refused to lose consciousness. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he waited for the explosion and the end to come. Would he feel anything? Incredibly, through the smoke and chaos came the Captain.

  “Righto, Drake, on your feet, man. We’ve got to get out of here,” he said in a steady voice.

  “Captain,” Drake replied urgently. “Quickly, get away. Forget me. I can’t walk.”

  Seeing the pilot’s wounds, Forseth’s expression became momentarily grim. He frowned and hesitated. Then he grinned broadly as if amused by the ill-timed circumstances. Shrugging, he appeared to dismiss yet one more obstacle. “Well, then, I’ll just have to carry you,” he replied, reaching toward him.

  Drake stared in awe. Carry him? Through this mess? Was the Captain smiling at his mad decision, his attempt to defy fate? Or had he actually found some perverse humor in the situation?

  Firmly grasping the Pilot by his arms, Forseth swung him over his shoulders. The pain was acute and Drake groaned and almost fainted. Another explosion went off, nearer this time. The enemy had seen them.

  “Captain,” Drake begged, his appeal a mere whisper. “Save … yourself.”

  Forseth gave a lighthearted laugh. “Are you kidding?” Picking his way through the wreckage he said, “I am saving myself. You don’t think I know how to pilot that cruiser, do you? Without you, how will we get off this lousy planet, for world’s sake?”

  Drake passed out as he began a gleeful giggle. Beyond all reason he felt fortunate. His last conscious thought was that he had never known anyone like Forseth before, and if he died now he would die happy, having served under him.

  When Drake came to he was on the medical deck, lying next to the Captain. Forseth lay on his stomach with a piece of shrapnel imbedded in his back the size of a saucer. He had apparently lost a lot of blood. It didn’t make sense. He had been lying on the Captain’s back so how had he received that injury? There was only one explanation. Forseth had been wounded before he rescued him, and that, Drake found out later, was exactly what had occurred. His friend had lifted him and carried him on his injured back. The pain must have been excruciating. Yet his Captain had saved his life and piloted them off-planet. He achieved both before finally collapsing from loss of blood.

  Drake shook his head, coming out of his reminiscences, automatically checking Icom navigation and the time. It was late. The Captain and he were alone on the Bridge. It was his watch and Forseth should have been in his bunk as well.

  “Are you going to turn in, sir?” Drake inquired, politely solicitous.

  “No,” Forseth replied. “I can’t sleep.” He started to pace and said, “I just don’t get it, Malcolm. He stopped pacing and turned to face his pilot. “We are well past the Age of Perdition. The Freeworlds are at peace and the government appears to be operating without flaw. Those with injustices or grievances make pleas for redress to the Council. Oh, sure, there is the odd small civil skirmish, and the Alliance is still an issue. Sure, there are pirates to keep in check. So why? Why do I feel so certain that there’s a conspiracy? I tell you, I’ve never been so concerned about a mission in my life.”

  The pilot shrugged, but he was pretty sure that he knew what the Captain’s problem was.

  He sighed as he remembered. After two years, Malcolm Drake still missed his wife. Verla had been ill with a rare form of cancer, the one-in-a-million type that was resistant to treatment. She had lost her beautiful red hair, and had thinned to almost nothing.

  As she got progressively more unwell, Drake had never felt so afraid, while he had been her sole concern. Who, she worried, would look after him when she was gone? One day as he was holding her, she had looked at him with an expression that communicated more clearly than any verbal utterance. Her eyes pleaded forgiveness for the separation she was responsible for, yet couldn’t avoid.

  She had died in his arms.

  Drake cleared his throat. “Sir,” he said with careful thought, “Ah … you know what? I think perhaps … Well, I think you’re in love.”

  Aboard Conqueror, Captain Pagett slowly regained consciousness. He was startled to find himself on the deck. Shakily he got to his feet. Glancing toward the console, he swore. According to time standards, two days had passed. Looking around he saw others also awaking and pulling themselves off the floor. He ordered a scan to verify the timer and contacted operations via Icom. “Damage control,” he said. He noticed that his hands were shaking.

  “Yes, sir,” a calm, professional voice answered. “I’ll have it for you in a moment, sir.”

  Pagett rested against the console, trying to piece together his last conscious moments. The ship, having completed a scan, informed him there was no malfunction. Ship logs, however, only showed static.

  Two days had passed.

  Numb incredulity slowly wearing off, Pagett realized that they must have travelled through a distortion. These were incredibly rare. No one had retained consciousness while passing through one. There were many unproven theories about the cause. What they did know is that a distortion always put the vessel ahead in time. If too much time passed, everyone died of thirst or starvation. They must have passed through one — it was the only explanation.

  Such luck! Neopol had been testing him on autopilot, otherwise who knows what would have happened? Captain Pagett pressed his lips together in anger. They would arrive in plenty of time to conceal Conqueror. Darla Wu would be taken by surprise. His eyes hardened. Anyone who could inhumanly murder everyone on that world deserved to die. He recalled the building with all the dead children. Forseth would be punished. And apparently he did it all for a woman.

  “Sir?” came an enthusiastic voice. “It’s a miracle, sir. No one wounded except two technicians who lost consciousness with their carbonizers on. Both suffered minor burns. No mechanical problems. The ship never knew the difference, sir.” Pagett noticed that the officer spoke rapidly, an aftereffect of shock, no doubt. The man was relieved to be alive.

  “Very good, and thank you. Captain out.” Admiral Neopol arrived on the Bridge. Pagett turned to meet him.

  “I heard the report from Operations. What’s our status?”

  “Sir,” Pagett said. “Conqueror will arrive at Delian within twenty-four hours.”

  “Very good, Captain.” Neopol grinned. “Quite extraordinary. I’ll inform the crew.” Mentally accessing ship wide Icom, he said, “Crew of Conqueror, today we all go down in history. We have successfully passed through a time distortion. Damage control reports that of the entire crew, only two were harmed and those were minor injuries. Congratulations to you all.” The crew cheered.

  “On a more serious subject, we will be in Delian’s orbit within the day. Our plan is to conceal Conqueror and capture their ship. Those responsible for the destruction of the Delian people will be punished for their cri
mes.”

  The crew cheered once more, and the Admiral waited with amused patience for them to settle down. “The section officers will arrange for orderly meal provision. I’m sure that we all are rather hungry, having not eaten for the last two days.” He gave a good-natured laugh. “This is your Admiral out.”

  Smiling at Conqueror’s Captain, the Admiral nodded. “Mr. Pagett, I’ll be in my quarters if you need me.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Captain Pagett replied, as Neopol strode toward the lift tube. They had survived a major crisis and the Admiral had managed the situation calmly and efficiently. That Neopol, Pagett thought. Sometimes he’s not too bad.

  13. The Fate of Darla Wu

  The “Age of Expansion” begun as a result of the discovery of Omni. By 2190, over 59 habitable worlds had been colonized. A number of factors made the exodus successful: inexpensive, accessible food and energy; an increase in viable lifespan; the use of robotics and Icom. The newly formed UWG gave colonists free travel, housing, and financial and tax incentives to colonize. Vast wealth was created by those early settlers.

  — Icompedia

  Darla Wu orbited Delian while Captain Larren Forseth and his crew focused upon their mission: to find out what happened to the people of Delian. Each man worked in their normal, professional capacity — completely unaware that they were going to have a bad day. A very bad day indeed.

  Police sensors had already confirmed a total lack of human life. Now they needed hard evidence. The only way to get that was to land on the surface of the planet. With three crewmen left on board Darla, Larren and the rest of his men took a shuttle to Delian. It was clear that the Lady Sartha had told the truth. Larren never doubted it, but it was difficult to see the confirmation of genocide. They landed outside a fabricated stone building, surrounded by hundreds of dead horses. When the men disembarked they wore masks, not for the fear of poisonous gases but because everywhere they went there was still the sickly stench of death.