Chaotic Futures, page 10
“You’re easy to manipulate,” the adversary replied dismissively. “I could never have convinced the other members of the council to join my plans. When they were killed by the captain’s arrogant actions, it was a gift that I couldn’t believe fell into my lap.”
The medical team removed the short blades and deposited them into sealed bags.
“I want those tested, and the report sent to the commander and me,” Eshtitor ordered.
Then the council members were loaded on stretchers, secured in place, and taken from the bay.
“Captain, while we’re here, I’d like you to walk me through what happened,” the commander requested.
Eshtitor nodded and waited for the commander to set up his incident recorder, which would trap the statement in three-D. When the commander nodded, Eshtitor related the call he’d received and his decision to meet. Then he explained the attack in detail.
When Eshtitor concluded, the commander inquired, “Then you admit that you were the individual who kicked adversary-one’s hand that drove his weapon into adversary-two?”
“Yes, I did that in self-defense,” Eshtitor replied. “I was fairly certain that the weapons were laced with elders’ drug, which was found in the bodies of the four dead assassins.”
The commander nodded and shut down his incident recorder.
Later, medical reported that the elders’ drug was found on the blades and in the attackers’ bodies.
When the incident report was published by the commander, the citizens became incensed. The vast majority was angry that something like this would occur among the population and especially that it was directed at the captain. A small minority regretted that the council members hadn’t been successful.
8: Revenge
TREMLOFF HOME WORLD
IMPERIUM EMPIRE
The Radag commander stalked across the plaza. He and his squads were some of the first Radags to be turned away from Darmian. Their contract had ended nearly a quarter annual ago. While they continued receiving pay and bonuses, the Krackus overseers didn’t truly understand the problem.
Halting at a training field, the commander growled an order to assemble, and his squads jumped to their feet.
“Commence combat in pairs,” the commander directed.
The warriors donned newly made gloves. They were thick to prevent claws from tearing flesh, and the warriors hated them.
However, this was the only compromise that the commander and the squad leaders could think to alleviate the warriors’ frustrations.
The warriors wanted to be on Darmian and competing to maintain their deadly skills, and they were incensed at not being able to return. Their discontent threatened to boil over, which would destroy morale. Eventually, it was sure to culminate in aggression among the warriors or against the locals.
The locals, the Tremloffs, had observed the lift of the Radags to return home. It was an old and expected practice. However, it was a surprise to planet administrators to see the same commander and his squad leaders return. Noticeably present were the disgruntled attitudes.
Several high-ranking Tremloff officials met to discuss the problem, and it was decided to approach one of the rebellious groups who had agitated for the overthrow of the invaders.
“We see the failure to return the commander and his squads as a significant problem,” Shorman, the head of the trio to make contact with the rebels, said.
“The modified training fights have already started,” Tartoff, the head of the rebels, noted. “It won’t be long before the warriors aren’t satisfied with those exercises.”
“Then they’ll take out their frustrations on our citizens,” Shorman concluded.
“Undoubtedly,” Softema, Tartoff’s mate, declared.
“We’d like to know what you might do about it,” Shorman said.
“No,” Tartoff replied.
“You won’t help your citizens?” a committee member asked incredulously.
“I said no to sharing with you what we might do,” Tartoff replied.
“Our group has survived by secrecy,” Softema explained. “We’re not about to discuss our plans with you.”
“If you want us to do something, say so, and then go away,” Tartoff added.
Shorman regarded his two companions who nodded their heads. “Do what you must to eliminate the threat,” he said.
When the committee exited the meeting house, Tartoff and his mate joined the five armed rebels in the next room, and they left the house via a trap door that led to a tunnel. The tunnel exited into another house that was rigged with explosives, which could be triggered remotely.
Late in the evening, Tartoff met with his four direct reports, which included his mate.
“By what method, and how far to go?” Tartoff asked.
“We’ve never been given permission,” a rebel pointed out. “We may never receive this opportunity again if we fail to be thoroughly successful.”
Immediately, the other three rebels agreed.
Tartoff wasn’t surprised by the response. A chance to retaliate against the invaders wasn’t to be missed. “Then we’re agreed that we must devise something that obliterates the Radags. Does this include the Krackus?” he asked.
“Yes,” came a chorus of answers.
“It must include the Imperium transport,” Softema added. “And we must strike before a peacekeeper or freighter returns.”
“How do we do that?” a rebel queried.
Softema grinned and left the room. She returned with a Tremloff in tow. “Tell them,” she encouraged the new party.
The elderly Tremloff proudly displayed a small glass vial filled with a clear liquid.
“I don’t see anything,” a rebel commented peering closely at the vial.
“The primary substance is water,” the Tremloff, an infectious disease specialist, said. “However, the vial also contains some Mormoor inhabitants.”
Except for Tartoff and his mate, the other rebels shuddered and moved their chairs away from the specialist. No one but scientists visited Mormoor Island. Even then, they were held in strict quarantine for many cycles and carefully checked that they hadn’t carried anything on or in their bodies from the island.
“If we want to take out the transport crew, this is how we do it,” Softema pronounced, while she stood comfortably next to the vial.
“Softema, you’ve thought this through,” Tartoff said. “Tell us the complete plan.”
“We supply water to the transport crew and the planetside invaders,” Softema enthusiastically explained. “We contaminate the shipment for the transport, and we wait three or four cycles.”
“Two cycles,” the specialist corrected. “Our crew will fill up the transport’s reserve tanks and carry the empty containers planetside.”
“So, we contaminate the admin building’s water supply two cycles after the shuttle heads for the transport,” Softema concluded.
“We’ve citizens in that building,” a rebel pointed out.
“It will be dangerous for them,” the specialist said. “They must be given bottled water to drink and told not to use any other water source, including washing their hands and face.”
“That’s risky,” the same rebel noted.
“And they’ll require a quarantine compound, which I’ll arrange,” the specialist replied.
“How long before the invaders succumb?” Tartoff asked.
“They’ll fall ill within two cycles,” the specialist replied. “By the fourth cycle, they’ll be bedridden. After that, it’ll be a maximum of four or five more cycles before they expire from dehydration and fever.”
“What about water filtration?” a rebel inquired.
“These aren’t mobile flagellates. They’re cysts, and they’re miniscule,” the specialist replied. “I’d be surprised if the ship is prepared to filter water to the degree necessary to remove these cysts. However, the admin building has the requisite level of filtration, which will require someone to remove a small tank that handles the final purification step.”
Tartoff made a note of that detail, and his mind quickly selected a means by which it could be handled.
“You say that the invaders will fall ill within two cycles,” a rebel said. “But what if individuals don’t absorb enough water, and they notice others getting sick?”
“A drop is all it takes,” the specialist replied. “The cysts will transform into mobile flagellates in the presence of animal fluids. They can burrow into the linings of the mouth, esophagus, or stomach. That they’re highly resistant to stomach acid allows them to survive for a while in that environment. Once in the body, they proliferate rapidly. When the crew becomes ill, medical staff will be able to diagnose the problem. But, by that time, the staff will be succumbing to the effects too. As it is, they won’t have a cure.”
“Why not?” a rebel inquired.
The elderly Tremloff chuckled darkly. “Because we aren’t able to cure the infected,” he said.
“Why haven’t these flagellates eliminated every living thing on Mormoor?” a rebel queried.
“These protozoa are heavily specialized. They’re found in only one pool, which is fed by a waterfall. The output of the pool rushes down rocks and into the sea, where the salinity kills them. At present, animals and birds have learned the danger, and they don’t visit the pool. These flagellates are fed by creatures that are swept downstream and over the falls to land in the pool.”
“Other questions?” Softema asked, with a satisfied air.
“Well considered,” Tartoff announced, and the other three rebels nodded in agreement.
“Then when do we go?” Softema inquired.
“As soon as I can make arrangements,” Tartoff replied. “We have to know when the next water shipment to the transport is outbound, and we have to plan when and how to contaminate those tanks. What about a sufficient supply of the cysts?”
“For that, I’ll need about seven cycles,” the specialist replied. “What’s in this vial is my entire sample. I must expose some aquatic specimens. Then I’ll allow the flagellates to proliferate. Afterward, I’ll collect fluids and filter them out. Within another cycle, they’ll encyst.”
“Then I’ll have plenty of time to make our preparations,” Tartoff said.
The meeting broke up.
The elderly specialist hurried to his lab, which he shared with a group of research scientists. Some individuals would help him propagate the flagellate. Others couldn’t be trusted with the project. They were too afraid of recriminations.
Tartoff and Softema contacted the supervisor who scheduled the shuttle flights to the Imperium transport, and he shared the lift dates and times.
“What about access to the water tanks?” Tartoff inquired.
“There you’ll have a problem,” the supervisor replied. “Krackus, with an escort of warriors, inspect the loading of supplies for the transport.”
“Then we’ll have to get to the source where they fill the containers,” Softema offered.
“That might be your better option,” the supervisor suggested. Then he shared the filling location, and the name of the Tremloff who managed the operation.
Before heading for the source of the water containers, the couple waited for the admin maintenance crew to take a midday meal break. It was known that they exited the building, walked to a grassy hillside, and sat in the bright starlight to eat their meals.
Tartoff and Softema arrived at the admin building while the crew was still eating. They waited until everyone was finished. Then as the crew walked down the hill, the couple crossed their path and greeted their target as if he was an old friend.
Despite not knowing the reason for the hails, the maintenance tech waved in return and angled his descent toward the pair.
“Do we know one another?” the tech inquired, looking from Tartoff to Softema.
“No,” Softema replied, smiling gently. “But we need your help.”
“I do off-duty work if you’ve got a water issue,” the tech said hopefully.
“It’s the admin building’s water supply. We understand you service it,” Tartoff said.
The tech’s eyes narrowed. “Are you rebels?” he asked. When neither individual responded, he quickly added, “That was a stupid question. What are you intending to do?”
“Contaminate the invaders’ water supply down here and up there,” Softema replied, pointing toward the building and then into the air.
“I can help with that,” the tech responded, smiling fiercely. “I lost a good friend to an angry warrior. There was no reason for the Radag’s harsh response to my friend’s simple mistake.”
“We’re sorry for the loss of your friend,” Softema said sympathetically.
“We will supply you with a small container,” Tartoff explained. “You’ll need to do two things. First, remove the final filtration tank.”
“You’ve got bugs, don’t you?” the tech enthused. “Are they nasty?”
“Extremely nasty,” Softema replied conspiratorially. “We understand that final filter would remove them.”
“It would,” the tech affirmed. “What else do you need?”
“After you move the tank, add the contents of the container to the water supply,” Tartoff finished.
“What about the Tremloffs who work in the building?” the tech asked.
“They’ll need to use bottled water for two cycles,” Softema warned. “No washing of hands or faces.”
“On the third cycle, they must not return to work,” Tartoff warned.
The tech pulled at his chin hair for a moment or two, while he considered the problem. “I’m going to need some help,” he finally said. “There are citizens working on every floor and on the systems located below the lobby. They’ll have to be forewarned.”
Softema glanced at her mate, who was frowning.
“I understand secrecy is an issue,” the tech interjected. “If we can’t trust citizens to stay quiet, and we don’t warn them, can they be taken care of by medical?”
“These are Mormoor specimens,” Tartoff replied.
The tech’s eyes widened in surprise. “We do have an issue, don’t we?” Then the tech glanced at his chronometer. “I’ve got to go. Let me think on it. How do I reach you?”
“We’ll be here every cycle at your midday meal,” Tartoff replied. “When you’re ready to talk, head away from your maintenance companions.”
The tech nodded and hurried toward the admin building.
Afterward, the couple visited the water reclamation center. The supervisor readily agreed to help the rebels. His male child bore the emotional scars of a warrior encounter. The injuries had been repaired, but the trauma remained.
It was three more cycles before the tech left his companions and headed for the place where he’d met the rebels.
“I gathered two good friends, whom I trust, and we couldn’t come up with a way to safeguard the citizens in the building,” the tech said without preamble. “But we’ve got another idea.”
“We’re all ears,” Softema said, which was funny, as they were rather lengthy and floppy.
The tech sniggered at Softema’s wit. Then he said, “What if we wait until the work cycle is over? Maintenance remains on site, but they’re in the underground level. It’ll be easy to take the team into my confidence. Then we can contaminate the water supply. Afterward, I stick around to ensure that no one breaks the safety protocols.”
“How does this help us?” Tartoff inquired.
“Because you tell the building’s workers not to return in the morning, and I do the same for the maintenance shifts,” the tech replied.
“That exposes a lot of citizens to Radag anger when the building isn’t properly supplied with citizens,” Tartoff said.
“Not if they can’t find them,” the tech replied, grinning.
“It could work,” Softema enthused. “We only need a couple of cycles. We put out a warning the evening of the contamination to tell the local populace to desert their residences and seek shelter a good distance from the admin buildings for a period of three cycles.”
Softema and the tech stared expectantly at Tartoff. He thought the idea had holes, but it was better than risking the citizens who worked in the building to the flagellates.
“We’ll do it your way,” Tartoff said. “The next time we return, it will be to deliver the flagellates.”
“Can’t wait,” the tech replied, and he hurried off with a jaunty walk.
“Stop frowning,” Softema said, gently rubbing one of Tartoff’s long ears. “I know you don’t like trusting anyone outside of our group.”
“This is how I’ve kept us safe,” Tartoff objected.
“After this, our population will be safe until the Krackus choose to retaliate,” Softema replied.
“I keep hoping the rumors are true,” Tartoff, responded, taking Softema’s hand and guiding her away.
“That there are invaders who are freeing the empire’s dominated races,” Softema offered.
“I know it sounds implausible. For all we know, they could be worse than the domineering Krackus and Radags,” Tartoff lamented.
“There’s nothing wrong with hope. We all need some,” Softema said, reassuringly squeezing her mate’s hand.
Several cycles later, Tartoff and Softema received a visit from the infectious disease specialist. He gave them thermos-size bottles. Seven were marked for admin buildings, and six indicated they were destined for the transport’s containers.
“Why the different labels on the six?” Tartoff asked.
“The shuttle carries three water containers to the transport,” the scientist explained. “I didn’t want to take the chance that the Krackus might only need two of them, and they return the third, which is the one that might hold the Mormoor specimens.”
“Good thinking,” Tartoff complimented.
“By the way, have you discussed decontamination procedures with your colleagues?” the scientist asked. When the couple’s eyes widened, he said, “Relax. It’s simple. Add heavy solutions of salt water, and let the containers sit for a cycle.”
The following morning, six Mormoor containers were delivered to the supervisor at the water reclamation plant. Then the countdown began.
