COUNTERPOINT
CHAPTER 2: THE PILOT
PART 10
By Mayavan Thevendra
The sun had just appeared over the distant rim of Oporis when Ian arrived at the Reading Par orbital platform. Amidst the frenetic military activity on the planet, he had managed to secure passage to the station aboard a light trading ferry on its way out of the system, but it hadn't been cheap. Of Ian's remaining two hundred odd dollars, another hundred and fifty persuaded the ship's captain to "forget" to include him in the cargo and passenger manifesto when it was submitted to Stellar Traffic Control, and with some careful manoeuvring, he was able to slip aboard the station unnoticed.
By now, Corporal Tando's unit, the "Infidels", had been missing for nearly five days. Ian didn't want to think about what the chances were that he had been killed, or about the chances of finding him, if he hadn't. Newly awakened instincts warned him that there wasn't enough time to stop and consider things; his journey had to be made quickly.
The fleet blockading the border into the Dead Zone lay four hours away by subwarp drive; the only way to approach it would be aboard a military vessel. If any of the cruisers or attack frigates had been docked at Reading Par, then Ian's job would have been simpler; their sheer size and crew number meant that sneaking on board was a relatively easy affair, especially for a former serving commander who was familiar with Confederate security protocols. The nature of the blockade, however, meant that the Capital class ships were forced maintain their position on the border at all times, and used troop transports to ferry cargo and personnel to and from their anchorage at Oporis. Stealing onto a small transport would be problematic enough, but there was the added obstacle of breaking through the blockade; no ships, military or otherwise, were permitted to pass through into the Dead Zone. Even deep space scavengers had sense enough to heed the Confederate warnings.
Reading Par was one of the older orbital constructions that Ian had visited; shaped like an enormous hourglass, it spun slowly in space, using centrifugal force rather than more modern magnetic rails to simulate gravity. The station was sectioned and compartmentalised, so it was impossible to see from one side of the interior to the other, although some of the docking bays were large enough to notice the curvature of the hull. There had been a permanent state of tension aboard the station since the blockade had been put in place; most of the current inhabitants were from one branch of the military or another, along with those few canny traders who sought to turn a profit from the current crisis.
Ian made his way into the visitor's foyer, a large busy hall, lined with telescreens and communication booths. Entering one of the unoccupied cubicles, he opened a line, and sent a call to the Torch. It was time for another favour.
"Alright, we've got a safe line. What's happening?" asked the now familiar voice.
"I'm on Reading Par," answered Ian, "If I can get onto one of the troop transports, then that'll be enough for now; I can figure out what to do next once I get to the blockade."
"Can you board one without being seen?"
"A transport? Not in a million years. And I can't very well commandeer one either, I'm going to have to pose as one of the listed passengers."
"What do you need?"
"Flight timetables," said Ian, "and platoon rosters."
"No problem, give me a second."
Ian heard the faint clicking of a keyboard, presumably as the Torch accessed the Reading Par mainframe. He briefly wondered if there was any computer system that was beyond the Torch's reach; wherever he was, he apparently had access to equipment advanced enough to break through Confederate file encryptions as though they were non-existent.
"Did you manage to crack the code on that other file?" asked Ian, remembering the data he had retrieved from the outpost in Ba-Leea.
"Not yet. I sent it over to a friend of mine; he's got more experience with word ciphers than I have. I'll let you know as soon as he gets anything. Here's the info."
On the Com booth's video display, a string of figures and names scrolled into view. After a quick inspection, Ian found that a large, newly conscripted platoon, the 347th "Steel Flints" had just assembled aboard the station, and were shortly due to be ferried across to the blockade to act as crisis troops, in the event that infantry units would be needed. From the brief platoon background that the Torch had retrieved, Ian read that the Steel Flints had recently been formed specifically to serve on the Dead Zone blockade. What's more, they had come from at least a dozen different sources: other units, boot camps, as well as resocialisation institutes. In such a new unit the chances were good that no one member of the unit was particularly well known by any of the others, and would be missed if Ian were to take his place.
"Don't go anywhere. I'll need you again." Said Ian, and closed the line.
Looking slightly out of place in crumpled clothes, and carrying a rucksack, he moved quickly; in due course, his discreet meanderings brought him to the "West Wing", one of the several bars aboard Reading Par, and now a popular drinking spot amongst the station's marine contingent.
There was music, and conversation, and a good deal of alcohol, but more importantly to Ian, there were lots of people. Settling into a quiet corner, he sat and watched. There were perhaps fifty people present; some clustered in large, noisy groups, arranged around tabletops slick with spilt beer, others sat in quiet twos and threes at the bar or next to the large window screen at the side, where there was a panoramic view of Oporis' northern continent. At the far end of the room, at a small table next to the emergency exit, there was a fairly young man sitting alone with an empty shot glass. A new recruit. Ian had seen thousands of them during his career; no matter what sort of a person they were in the outside world, they all took on a certain look as soon as they joined the Corps. From the look of him, Ian guessed he was a resocialisation job; he had a fresh face, and he'd apparently buried his nerves under several measures of whiskey, but there was an indefinable look in his eyes that Ian had seen before in other neurally reformed conscripts. A thick patch sewn onto the right shoulder of his fatigues bore the number 347; he was a Steel Flint. Glancing around, Ian could see other members of the 347th, none of whom took great pains to be sociable with the other marines; but the fellow in the corner was the only one of them who was by himself.
Ian grabbed his rucksack and sidled over to the bar and bought a bottle of light beer, then walked slowly around the crowd, and over to the new recruit at the table.
"Mind if I sit?" he asked.
The marine looked up, his eyes slightly glassy, and gave a casual nod. Ian set his pack underneath the table, and took a seat next to him. It looked as though he had stopped drinking shots for the night, although Ian couldn't figure whether it was due to good judgement, or simple lack of funds. He took a slow sip from his bottle; the brew was a native product of Oporis, and was remarkably strong for a supposedly "light" beer. Ian set it back down on the table, and looked over at the marine.
"Been in the Corps long, have you?"
"Mmh?" said the marine, shaking his head. Ian leaned over.
"I said, have you been in the Corps long?"
"Oh. Unnh, no. No, I finished training two months ago. You a marine?"
"Me? No, no," replied Ian with a wave of his hand, "I'm in engineering."
"Oh." Said the marine with a nod, and then looked back towards the bar.
"You, uh, want another, mate?" asked Ian, pointing at his empty tumbler.
"What? Oh, no thanks. I've probably had enough tonight. 'Sides, I'm out of cash, anyway."
"Both" thought Ian to himself. "Hey, what unit are you in?" he asked.
The marine tapped his shoulder and smiled.
"347th Steel Flints."
"Good unit?"
"They're okay, I guess. I only met them yesterday. Haven't even met our C.O. yet, and there's no time for an initiation, we're getting shipped out to the blockade tomorrow."
He tilted his head over towards Ian.
"We're supposed to be, y'know, taking it easy tonight. No booze. But I figured what the hell, it's not like we're gonna have a lot to do once we get out there. We'll prob'ly just end up sitting on one of the damn frigates for a month, playing cards or something." He said with a dour chuckle.
"So, how come you joined the marines then?" asked Ian with a fake smile, "Were you looking to become a hero, bring a little glory back to your home planet?"
The marine gave a brisk shake of his head, and then stared solemnly down into his empty glass.
"No, I'm uh, I'm here under direction."
"You're what?"
"I, I came out of the Confederate Resocialisation Institute on Carta Fax. I'm…resocialised." He said, looking up at Ian. Ian gave a friendly nod and shrugged his shoulders.
"Well," he said, "doesn't mean you're a bad person, does it?"
"Nope. Just that I used to be. Heh."
"What was it that you did? I mean, that put you in prison?" asked Ian.
"Can't remember. And they didn't tell me when I came out. They just gave me this refresher course on what's what. Name and birth-date and stuff like that. I don't think about it much anymore." Said the marine quietly, apparently seeking an end to the topic.
Ian nodded and took another sip from his drink. The first resocialised marine he had ever met had been in the Windtails, nearly twenty years ago. He didn't last very long. The first recipients of the neural reconditioning treatment had been programmed with exemplary behaviour and a supposedly flawless sense of ethics. Most of them suffered from severe rejection disorders, because the new neural patterns were so far removed from their own. Paranoia, depression and acute insomnia were among the more harmless symptoms, but there were many reports of suicide, schizophrenia, sudden and violent seizures, and dangerously psychotic behaviour, enough so that any platoon with a reformed marine was put at an unacceptable risk. Subsequent advances in the field allowed physicians to tailor the treatment given depending on the subject's psychological makeup; traits such as obedience and composure were still implanted to varying degrees, but the recipients emerged from the treatment as vastly more ordinary individuals than their predecessors, with flaws and fears as well as hopes and dreams.
Generally speaking, Ian wasn't entirely sure what to make of them. Perhaps it was his old-fashioned values that brought about a certain mistrust in him, or perhaps it was merely an irrational fear. The old maxim "Once a thief, always a thief" kept coming to mind; it was hard for Ian to believe that a person could change so much, even with the aid of revolutionary science.
"So what time do you set out tomorrow?" asked Ian, already knowing the answer.
"Uhh, 1200 CST." Said the marine, checking his watch.
"Well, it's only ten now." said Ian, "The night's young, and I've got some friends who are throwing a little party in one of the freight hangars. What do you say? Care to join us?"
"Aww, I don't know. Y'know, I just about reached my limit for the night. I'm not really into binge drinking."
"There's plenty of things to do at a party other than drink. There's a couple of girls I know who've been going out of their way to meet marines. I get the feeling they'd like you."
This sort of approach was entirely new to Ian, and he suddenly became very aware of how sleazy he sounded. The marine leaned away, and looked at him with narrow eyes, and a faint smile.
"Who the hell are you, anyway?"
"I told you, I'm an engineer."
"Uh-huh. And is there some reason why you like hanging around with marines, pal?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Yes, they're always such a good laugh. You've never been an engineer, have you mate? It's as dull as pigshit. You've got to take the laughs when you can get them, that's what I always say." Said Ian, taking another swig of beer, and trying his best to remain convincing. Apparently he was; after a pause, the marine raised his hands in resignation.
"Heh. Alright pal, you got me. Lead on." He stood up, slightly unsteadily, and reached down with his right hand.
"Name's Turvey, Private Craig Turvey."
"Bill Spencer." Said Ian, shaking Turvey's hand.
"Nice to meet you, Bill." Said Turvey with a grin. "Okay, let's go find this party of yours, but I gotta tell you now, I'm only going to be able to stay for an hour or two. That's what it's like in the marines, buddy. It's all about discipline. Discipline on duty, discipline off duty. It's tough, but that's the way it is."
Ian smiled at Turvey's ramblings, and retrieved his rucksack from underneath the table.
"Yes, I can imagine."
After leaving the West Wing, the two of them walked towards the outer ring of the station, and headed towards the docking bays. Fortunately Private Turvey chose not to quiz Ian on why he insisted on carrying a rucksack around with him, and followed on behind quite contentedly, only occasionally checking his wristwatch. Having been this way before, Ian took care to pass by a set of toilets, at which point he subtly slowed his pace. He had been hoping that an evening spent in the bar had taken its expected toll on the marine's bladder. Almost on cue, Turvey caught sight of the men's room sign, and called out.
"Ho, ahh, hang on, Bill. I, uh, gotta go take care of business." He said, and walked inside.
In this section of the platform, close to the freight hangars and loading bays, the corridors were mostly deserted, save for the occasional wandering technician. After a few seconds, Ian took a last look to check no one was about, and then opened the men's room door. Around a corner, five cubicles filled the left wall, and past the sinks on the right was a line of five urinals, of which Turvey had taken the one closest to the door. The room was apparently empty, save for the two of them, but the cubicles had to be checked. Very slowly, Ian leaned forward, and peered underneath the doors. He could see that the first two were empty, but he couldn't see underneath the others without walking behind Turvey, and he made a guess that the marine was still sober enough to notice him. Changing his plan, Ian discarded his secrecy, and walked casually around to Turvey's left side.
"Oh hey, fancy meeting you here." Joked Turvey, as he glanced briefly towards him.
Ian smiled, and then while Turvey's attention was elsewhere, he quickly checked the other three cubicles. Empty. Ian didn't waste any time. In a swift, sharp movement, he brought the heel of his palm into the base of Turvey's skull. He was already leaning forward, and the sudden blow drove his head into the hard, tiled wall with some considerable force. To Ian's relief, one hit was enough; Turvey staggered, and then crumpled silently into a heap on the floor. Slinging his rucksack down onto the floor, Ian quickly retrieved a roll of thin rope, and proceeded to tie Turvey's hands behind his back, as well as bind his knees together, and then stuffed his mouth with a wad of toilet tissue. Turvey's credentials were held in a wallet in his belt, which Ian pocketed. He then removed the unconscious marine's dogtags, and placed them around his own neck. Finally, he dragged him into the last stall, propped him on top of the commode, and tied a length of cord between his elbows and the water pipes at the rear of the cubicle. With any luck, the combination of alcohol, and a concussion would keep Turvey out of action until afternoon the next day, by which time Ian would hopefully have left the station with the other Steel Flints. The caretakers had already cleaned the toilets for the day, and wouldn't return until the next evening, and anyone looking underneath the door would only see a pair of legs, and so assume that the stall was occupied. A small hook tied to the end of a cord enabled Ian to lasso the security latch, and, after a couple of attempts, lock the door from the outside.
"Sorry about this, Private." Whispered Ian, as he picked up his rucksack and left the men's room.
Activity aboard the station was beginning to wane as midnight approached, and most of the civilian staff had switched over to the military night watch. Ian didn't make any effort to avoid the security cameras on his way back to the inner ring; once Turvey had been found, and he'd given his account of what had happened to him, it was a dead certainty that Ian would be identified, but as long as he was on the other side of the blockade when it happened, it didn't matter. At the moment, Ian was thinking only a single, desperate step ahead; he didn't have the luxury of time, or the necessary resources to do any more.
A small observation lounge brought a video communication booth, and Ian retrieved Turvey's wallet, and sent a call to the Torch.
"I've got a name." Said Ian, "Private Craig Turvey. I'm taking his place on the transport tomorrow."
"Okay. Where's Private Turvey now?"
"He's taking a restroom break. A long one." Said Ian.
"I see. Alright, what is it that you want me to do?"
Ian took a brief look around, and checked that he wasn't being overheard.
"Well, you're going to have to substitute my essential details with Turvey's. Marine registry photograph, fingerprint I.D., retinal scan, everything except name and bio."
"What makes you think I have your "essential details"?" replied the Torch.
"How about you level with me?" said Ian, "Every com booth with a video relay that I've used, like this one, you've seen my face. Bearing in mind your apparent knowledge of computers, I'd guess it was a relatively easy task for you to match my face against any record databases you may have hacked into. In fact, I'd find it extremely unlikely if you haven't. So let's just drop the pretence, all right?"
"All right," said the Torch, after a short pause, "Commander."
"I'm not a commander anymore." Said Ian, tersely.
"You're right. Mister Latimer, then."
Another pause. Ian had rather gotten used to the anonymity that he was working under. He had suspected from their first contact that the Torch knew who he was, but having it confirmed was still somewhat disconcerting. The thought of anyone, friend or foe, knowing so much about him was unappealing.
"Have you got any of his details?" asked the Torch eventually. Ian nodded.
"Then hold them up. It'll save me having to do a separate hack."
Ian pulled Turvey's birth certificate, and marine registry slips from his wallet, and held them in front of the booth's video camera.
" Okay, I've already got your I.D. details on file. Hang on." Said the Torch.
"So, are you going to even the odds, or not?" asked Ian.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you know who I am. How about returning the favour?"
A soft chuckle rustled through the speaker.
"I'll tell you what Mister Latimer. If it ever becomes necessary for you to know who I am, then rest assured, I'll tell you. Until then, though, it's probably better that you don't know. Not all information is power. Some of it's just dangerous."
"Are you saying that my knowing who you are would put me in danger?" asked Ian.
"You. Or me."
"Well. I suppose I can't argue with that."
"Heh. You can." Replied the Torch, "but I'd appreciate it if you didn't. So, anyway, how about you? What do you make of civilian life so far?"
"I'm not an expert, but I wouldn't exactly call this civilian life." Said Ian.
"Ha. Yeah, good point. Still, it must be strange. You were in the marines for, what, eighteen years?"
Ian shook his head.
"I suppose next, you'll be telling me what my favourite food is?"
"Sorry, just making conversation. This hack's going to take a while."
"No, it's alright." Said Ian. "Look, what else can you tell me about Corporal Tando?"
"Not much. I don't know a whole lot about him beyond what's in his files. But he's the only person who seems to have any clue about what's going on. About what it is that we're dealing with."
"Yes, I wonder what that is." Ian replied quietly.
"Confederate intelligence keeps claiming that it can predict enemy actions in the same way as you might be able to calculate behavioural patterns in animals."
"Animals. They're more than that." Sneered Ian.
"Yeah, we know that. But if we're right, then there should be some way to prove it. Maybe that's what Tando was up to. He assured me that he was onto something big. Damn it, this whole time, Confederate PR's got the public convinced that the enemy's nothing more than a horde of mindless insects. If there was some way we could blow the cover open. Show people what it is that's tearing its way through our front line."
"I don't care about proving anything." Said Ian, dryly. "I just want to find a way for us to beat them. Some way to drive them back. They've taken too much."
Ian hadn't thought about them in a while, but the conversation brought them all back to the front of his mind. He saw their faces again, heard their voices, listened to them as they cried out in the dark, and were then brutally silenced. The Spider Monkeys. Harold. Lorraine. Old friends that should have been family, if only he had had the courage to tell them. Ian's heart suddenly felt heavy, and weak, and he remembered the feeling that had haunted him on Widow XII, a lifetime ago, and wondered what had become of it. He looked deep into himself, and tried to find, there and then, what kind of a man he had become. He had already attacked three people on this wild hunt of his. What it were all for naught? If there was no answer, no solution, no salvation; what then? But there had to be. There had to be.
"It's done." Said the Torch. "Confederate personnel files at Reading Par will update in an hour, and when they do, your face, fingerprints, and retinal I.D. will replace those of Craig Turvey's. You sure that'll be enough?"
"No. But it's worth a try, yes?"
"Hmh. Better find someplace out of the way to hide out until your roll call tomorrow. The next time I hear from you…"
"If all goes well," said Ian, "I'll be inside the Dead Zone."