Escape from Paradise, page 18
“How about a real name? Don’t you have one?”
“I do.”
“Then tell me. Let’s talk like one human to another.”
Number Seventeen coughed loudly to clear his throat. “As if you didn’t know …” he mumbled, swallowing his own phlegm.
“I’m not an esdee,’” Darski said, doubtful that the prisoner would believe him. “I’m here because you might know something I’m very interested in.”
“Who sent you here?”
“No one. It’s just that … I was in touch with Dr. Pallance, the head of this facility.”
“Dr. Pallance?” The prisoner shook his head. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Never mind,” Darski put an end to the divagations. He was mildly annoyed, but he knew he couldn’t show it. This was too important a matter to get fucked up. “Okay, let’s do this again. I’m Captain Darski. What’s your name?” he repeated and then added in a stage whisper, “I told you my name, now you tell me yours.”
Number Seventeen stared intently at the officer’s face. “To what do I owe this sudden interest? I told you what you wanted to know.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Henryan gave up and decided to cut to the chase. “I don’t know who you are, or why you ended up here, and, to be honest, I don’t really care.” Turning the holoprojector on, he pulled up the sketches. “Do you know what it is?”
“No,” Number Seventeen replied.
Too quickly and too nervously, Henryan thought. Dr. Pallance was right: prolonged solitary confinement messed with people’s heads so much that they didn’t control their own reactions anymore. Even a blind man could see that the prisoner was lying.
“It’s your drawings.”
“So what?” The prisoner would have shrugged if the electromagnetic constraints allowed for it. “I don’t remember scribbling any such thing.”
“I think you do,” Darski said.
The second screen came to life, showing the confrontation between Khumalo and the liners. Not a sanitized holo, but a full recording, available only to High Command.
The prisoner’s reaction didn’t surprise Henryan; it was exactly what he expected. Number Seventeen turned pale, and pearly beads of sweat appeared on his forehead instantly. He gaped at the screen alive with apocalyptic scenes, as if he didn’t believe his eyes. When Darski stopped the recording and the exploding ships froze above the table between them, the prisoner remained motionless.
“What was that?” he asked shakily after he came to his senses. “What did you just show me?”
“Something tells me you know more than you’re letting on,” Henryan snapped, pointing to the other display. He’d learned how to put pressure on people from his brother, and now he intended to use this knowledge. “But first things first. What’s your name?”
The prisoner looked at him reproachfully.
“Stachursky. Nike Stachursky.”
“Nike?” Darski was flabbergasted. “Are you from Earth?”
“No. That’s a standard double-barrel, actually. Nik and Ike …”
Darski entered his first and last name and waited for what the Admiralty’s database would spit out. Finally, on a small screen his interlocutor couldn’t see, he noticed a flashing folder. The facial features matched, although the young man in the photograph weighed at least twenty pounds more and was smiling. Twenty-seven years old. The fourth best score of all the graduates, assignment to the Recycling Corps. Since when does the Academy relegate top students to junk collection …? Henryan found this thought disturbing, but he pushed it aside for the time being. Training on the FSS Nomad, the first mission in the New Rouen system. And that was it. If you don’t count the last file, that is. Very brief, in fact consisting of only three letters.
“KIS.” Killed in service.
The enclosed hyperlink, however, provided access to a report, in which a certain Captain Morrisey had described the accident scrupulously. Stachursky, Bourne, and two other cadets were practicing rescue capsule emergency launching. One of them entered a real startup sequence by mistake and launched their capsule straight into a wreckage cluster. The captain and two other crew members confirmed that the high-speed capsule had collided with the cluster multiple times, and most likely exploded. Stachursky was killed outright; Bourne, who’d ejected, was still in coma, in hospital on Kassel 6. On board collapsars, such accidents were not uncommon—especially among cadets whose IQ was rarely impressive.
When Henryan looked up at the prisoner, he was staring at the still cube with an alien liner flying from behind the sphere of plasma which a proud battleship had turned into seconds ago. The captain understood that Stachursky’d been deleted from the Fleet’s register as another victim of a long-forgotten war.
“Well, Nike … Now tell me what you know about the ships that you’ve sketched so skillfully.”
Stachursky gulped. There was fear in his eyes. “You won’t believe me,” he said after he’d gathered his thoughts.
“Wanna bet?”
“While recycling the wreckage in the vicinity of the fourth planet in the New Rouen system, I noticed another cluster in the Theta L-point. We flew to check it out—” He started to sweat profoundly. Those weren’t happy memories. “We found a ship there. Damaged, drifting in the cloud of debris for about forty thousand years, as it turned out later …”
Henryan first widened his eyes and then nodded, encouraging the prisoner to continue.
“We went on board, which was our captain’s idea,” Stachursky added hastily, “I was against this, but they outvo―”
“Come on, focus on what’s really important,” Darski said.
“Under one of these domes,” Nike pointed to the bulges at the liner’s bow, “there was a large recess which we called a hangar. I made some sketches of the mooring turret …” He turned to the second screen, hesitated, and gestured at the right drawing. “We got into a complicated corridor system through one of the locks …”
He traced the drawing with his finger and fell silent.
“And then?”
“We inspected everything. I guess I drew up a corridor plan too … Eventually, we got to a sort of hibernation chamber, where we found a ma’lahn. Still alive.”
“Still alive what?”
Nike pointed his chin at the figure of an angel.
“Him.”
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“No.” Nike looked down.
“Are you telling me that we’ve been attacked by angels?”
Instead of answering, Stachursky just nodded.
“See? You don’t believe me. And I haven’t come to the best part yet.”
Henryan leaned back in his chair. After a promising start, they sank to new depths of absurdity. He was beginning to suspect that Nike was just plain crazy because of the trauma he’d suffered, and no longer able to tell the difference between fact and fantasy. However, he decided to listen to the rest of his story, for there was a grain of truth in it—the prisoner’s drawings showed alien liners, there was no doubt about that. It was only necessary to skillfully manage this conversation, and then separate fact from fiction—or rather sick mind illusions.
“I’m sorry, you just took me by surprise. Go on. Do the best you can and I’ll try not to interrupt you.”
“What I’m going to tell you now, sir, is so incredible that you could easily think I’m nuts, but I am not.
“Scriptural angels look just like the being I’ve drawn not coincidentally, oh no. If you had a little better education, you’d be familiar with the name I gave you …”
Darski ignored the waspish allusion.
“Many thousands of years ago,” Stachursky continued, “we saw them regularly because they were our shepherds. Yes, the word ‘shepherd’ is the most appropriate here. Everything we’ve been taught about the origin of man is nonsense and lies, sir. Do you want to know the truth? It was the ma’lahn who brought our ancestors to Earth. The cradle of Humankind? Our roots go back to one of their farms where we were bred like cattle. Also for slaughter, of course.”
The prisoner’s mocking smile told Henryan that he wore an expression of disgust on his face.
“That’s right. We were livestock to them, nothing more. And I’m not making it up. In the hold of the alien ship, we found tens of thousands of humanoid carcasses, frozen and cut up.”
“That’s what you figured based on some ancient scriptures and butchered bodies?” Henryan couldn’t help himself.
“No. We didn’t have to speculate. Murdermat told us everything.”
“Who?”
“The ma’lahn whom we awoke.”
“I see.”
“Don’t try to fool me. You don’t get anything, and you didn’t believe a word of what I just said, maybe except the first part. I’d known what this ship looked like even before I met you, hadn’t I? We … I’m talking about the Nomad’s crew … could be sure that no one would believe us, so we didn’t report the incident and kept all the details under wraps. It’s all so fucked up that even I sometimes think ‘Nike, the Theta adventure was just an extremely dumb dream.’”
Henryan nodded; at long last Stachursky said something that made sense. A second ago he wanted to turn the comlink off and leave.
An extremely dumb dream doesn’t even begin to cover it, he thought. The most moronic story anyone’s ever told, more like. Nothing about it adds up.
“Let’s stay focused on the ship,” Darski said, restraining his nerves. “What else can you tell me about it?”
Nike thought deeply.
“Your head’s going to explode when you hear this,” he said with a note of amusement in his voice, but became serious almost instantly. “In fact, it’s not a ship at all. It’s a living creature, surrounded by armor which—”
Darski winced. He should have laughed, there and then, but before he had a chance to lift the corners of his mouth, he remembered how the liners responded to the nuclear torpedoes.
If Nike isn’t lying …
“Just a sec. Are you saying that this ship has a will of its own?”
“Well, I wouldn’t quite put it that way myself, but … it sure can make autonomous decisions. It let us in.”
“It let you in?”
“Yes. Its deflectors were still active, though barely functional. The ma’lahn use absorption fields,” Stachursky added casually, as if it wasn’t a very important piece of information.
“Anyway,” he continued in the same breath, “we started bombarding the wreck with the L-point debris and suddenly, one of the domes opened letting us into the hangar. Then, while determining the layout of the interior, we noticed something strange. New layers didn’t match the old ones. This could mean only one thing: the ship’s structure was fluid. Moreover, at one point it became clear that some of the corridors were closing up on their own, as if the whole thing was made from some super-elastic material. We even had to burn through one such obstruction …”
Darski was seriously confused. Could the prisoner really have seen an alien liner up close? But how else would he know about the absorption fields, which were just a theory in the Admiralty’s eyes. Did it mean that the rest of his story was also true? Henryan, who kept a cool head, found it difficult to believe that the Aliens looking just like biblical angels raised his ancestors for meat. Although … that would explain their current actions, wouldn’t it? Since the livestock got out of hand, it was only natural that …
Come on, man, he thought. This can’t be true. Nike went through an ordeal which messed with his head so much that now he can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.
Henryan made some notes, however. Just in case.
“Okay,” he said. “Without proof, no one’s going to believe you, you realize that, don’t you?”
“I guess …”
“So? Evidence?” the captain pressed on, but Stachursky only shook his head. Henryan leaned back in his chair. “Then we have a problem.”
“You do,” Nike jibed.
“Don’t be so cheeky,” Darski cut him short. “When I say we have a problem, I mean you and me.”
“Oh? And why’s that?”
“Let me put it this way … We are currently located in Belt U. On Ulietta, which will be attacked by the Aliens in about twenty hours. My problem is that I’m responsible for evacuation and can’t see any way in which all the colonists might be saved. Your problem is that this compound is already empty. The staff and patients have been transferred on board the Admiralty’s hospital ship. Only you weren’t on the list of people eligible for transport.”
Stachursky was still smirking, but visibly lost his confidence.
“Those who put me in here are capable of such cruelty,” he admitted sadly.
“Who are you talking about?”
The prisoner sighed. Instead of giving an answer, he asked, “What exactly is my current status?”
“It’s hard to say,” Henryan said calmly. “If I write you off as insane, you’ll be dead in twenty hours, still sitting in that chair …”
“Good to know.”
“… but if you start talking sensibly and give me some information that’ll help the Fleet, I’ll get you out of here.”
“And what next? The Admiralty will take care of me again. I’ll be put in the hole, or better yet—I’ll inadvertently fall out of an airlock, which I’ll open with both my feet and hands tied up.”
“You’re talking as if everyone in the Admiralty hated your guts,” Darski said.
“Don’t they?”
“Let’s take a step back. Now that the formalities are out of the way, tell me what you’ve been doing time for?”
“The Nomad’s crew not only cleared debris from orbits, but also made money on the side, looting all promising wreck,” Stachursky said with some reluctance in his voice. “You may not know this, but … on New Rouen, there was a battle between the separatists’ fleet and the Federation’s striking force under the command of Admiral Taho—”
“History was one of my favorite subjects,” Henryan interrupted him. “Get to the point.”
“We got on board Odin, Tahomey’s flagship. That clone-of-a-bitch Morrisey was obsessed by desire to possess memorabilia …”
“Get. To. The. Point!” Darski urged him.
“On one officer’s dead body, I found a diary with a very interesting story from the times of the civil war …” Nike hesitated. “It portrayed a certain war hero in a rather negative light. A still-living hero, I should add.”
“The civil war ended more than a hundred years ago,” Henryan said. “Those who took part in it are long since go—” Suddenly, he remembered that it wasn’t right. There was one exception. “Are you talking about Admiral Dreade-Ravenore?”
“Yes,” Stachursky confirmed.
“That must have been him who put you here …”
“No. Upon returning from New Rouen, I wrote a report, and ignoring the chain of command, I sent it directly to Chancellor Modo and two other members of the Council. Three days later, I was arrested by esdees who then dragged it out of me, I mean the information where I kept Major Visolay’s diary and all the backup copies. I’ll add in passing that they didn’t only use gentle interrogation techniques such as drug administration. Eventually, I was put into a stasis pod and … woke up here. Then forgive me if I don’t share your trust in our superiors.”
“All right. You’re forgiven,” Darski said, still feeling that there was something off about Nike’s story. Finally, he realized what it was. “This wasn’t your first clash with Dredd,” he stated rather than asked.
“How do you figure?”
Henryan ignored the incitement. “Why’d such a good student like yourself ended on board a collapsar?”
“I contributed to the wrong … ahem … body of knowledge,” Nike responded enigmatically.
Darski was impressed. “Did you dig up dirt on Dredd?”
“No … I fucked his youngest daughter.”
“Whoo,” Henryan groaned. “Sweet.”
“It just kind of happened. I didn’t exactly force myself upon her, you know.”
“And by some wondrous twist of fate, you found documents that incriminate him during your first mission.”
“Accidents happen, sometimes even happy accidents.”
“So they do …” Darski muttered in an absent tone, wondering how much of Stachursky’s story he could include in his official report and not make a fool of himself in front of Rutta.
“What’s gonna happen to me?”
Henryan jumped at the sudden question. He had no idea what to do with the prisoner. Smuggling him out of Ulietta could cause quite a stir if he’d really been exiled by someone from the Council, for it certainly wasn’t a routine detention. The lack of documentation concerning his transfer was the proof of that. What could Darski do to help Nike? He was nobody next to the top brass. Besides, having gotten intobad books more than once, he walked on eggshells too. And Rutta would have a field day when he heard this absurd theory about angels and raising people for meat. Especially that there was no evidence to support it. However, if only Stachurskycut the bullshit, the colonel might be willing to offer him some sort of protection in return for the liner’s technical specifications. The question was whether Nike would be able to restrain himself?
“I’ll try to help you,” Henryan said, drawling the words. “Now, listen to me very carefully …”
TWENTY-THREE
Fitz sprang to his feet at the sight of Henryan leaving the elevator. Except for him and his graviplane, the hangar was empty, the lower deck drowning in garbage left by the hurriedly evacuated medics.
“What took you so long?” he asked and before Darski even replied, added: “Who’s this?”
He pointed to a young man keeping his head on a swivel.
“He’s coming with us,” Henryan said without going into detail.
The head of the scientific department shrugged. “Okay.”
However, the fact that Stachursky passed him in total silence piqued Olivernest’s interest anew. He knew that Darski, initially opposed to Dr. Pallance’s idea, had changed his mind upon watching some message. Could it be that this quiet young man was the key to the mystery?
