WOLF DAWN: Science Fiction Thriller/ Romance (Forsaken Worlds) (15 page)

Neopol gave Barlow a drink, squeezing a flask of water directly into his mouth. “Why don’t you just give up now, Jon?” he asked kindly. “I don’t really want to hurt you.”

These words clarified something in Barlow’s mind. Such an outright lie was way too large to swallow. He snorted, “Don’t … make me laugh.” Barlow’s voice was hoarse from screaming and he found speech difficult. “You love it. If I admitted to everything you would still continue your ‘test.’ You’re some kind of sexless sadist. I bet you’re impotent.”

Barlow felt momentary satisfaction as the comment enraged Neopol. He thought,
Ha. Direct hit.
and the probe switched on again. After a particularly lengthy period of agony, Captain Barlow mercifully slammed once more into the black painless refuge of unconsciousness.

B
arlow woke. He was in his own quarters. Somehow his ordeal was over. He looked down and found that he had been washed and dressed in a newly pressed uniform, formal service blues. They had probably had to burn the one he’d been wearing. Barlow sat in his room with every muscle aching. Everything seemed the same. Janson, no doubt, had taken care to see that he was well presented. That must have been a challenge.

Barlow had puked, pissed and shat himself. His nose bled and bled, refusing to stop until one of the medical men intervened. Barlow shook his head. He was surprised that his eyes hadn’t bled or flown right out of their sockets every time Neopol hit “on.”

He checked Icom; still offline.

Perversely, he felt pleased. He had gone to four and a half and Neopol had been unable to “break” him. Barlow felt a quiet emptiness, strangely calm.

It was over.

He gazed around the room.
Everything was so clear.
It was as if, prior to this moment, he had been vision impaired and now he had perfect sight. Each chair, each table, appeared solidly outlined. Everything was so much more real and distinct than before. And that feeling. Kind of disconnected and floating.

Was this sensation simply an appreciation of the absence of pain? Or had his suffering forced him away from the physical, toward a more spiritual plane?

He felt awed to be alive.

With an abrupt shock, Barlow was pulled back to reality. He remembered something that made him go cold. He had been injected with mindtap, the powerful drug that worked as a truth serum. With his defenses down, he had been interrogated. How had he forgotten that? His memories rushed back and he recalled the events in detail:

The Admiral had been almost disappointed. “So, you’re not working for the Delians?”

“Never even seen a Delian,” he slurred slowly, voice hoarse, his breathing deep and even.

“Then why did you fail to report the sensor reading?” Neopol’s voice was relentless.

“It … only … showed for a moment. No one else saw it … decided to leave it. If it was a ship, let some poor bastard escape … if they could.” Captain Barlow was tired. That nagging voice. He wished that Neopol would leave him alone, so he could get some sleep. Why wouldn’t he go away?

Neopol’s snarled, his tone laced with anger. “But why? Why did you do it? You were jeopardizing your post, your position, your service in the Fleet. All for a people you’ve never seen.” He breathed in and out for a minute and seemed to regain control. He asked gently, “Why, Jon? What did you want to protect?”

The truth had tumbled out. Barlow found himself weeping like a child.

He knew why.

It was important to save them, he had to. “I thought of my wife, Carolle, and my two children. If they were in the same situation … I would’ve wanted someone to give them a chance.”

Neopol had looked at him, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Ah,” he said. “I see, Jon. I understand now. Thank you.”

Barlow came out of his reverie disgusted. During the probe he had begged, sobbed and wept with agony — it was impossible not to do that. But during mindtap he had cried with honest, heartfelt emotion. It seemed such personal exposure. The monster had gotten him to cry like a child. Neopol would have loved that.

Barlow felt tainted and unclean. It was a feeling he couldn’t shake.

He sighed. Where had that lovely floating sensation gone?

So. Neopol knew the truth. A jury would find him guilty, but there were extenuating circumstances. He wouldn’t get full penalties for compassion. Another thought struck him suddenly. He hadn’t had a memory wipe. Why?

Neopol strode in, his aide close behind him. “Ah, Captain Barlow.” Barlow moved to stand up but Neopol added, “No, no need to stand.” His comment was an order.

To remain seated while a superior was standing violated service protocol. Not only that but Neopol towered over him. Barlow felt at a disadvantage, which was no doubt Neopol’s intention.

The Admiral said, “You realize that you’ll stand trial?”

Barlow tried, but he could hardly speak. His vocal cords were rough from screaming. At Neopol’s nod, Jason produced a spray. Barlow opened his mouth, and something cool and soothing coated his ravaged throat. In a moment he was able to talk, but his voice was still graveled.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “But when the facts are taken into account I feel a jury will be lenient.” I may have earned a demotion, Barlow thought. But Neopol would earn more than that when his illegal use of the probe was discovered.

“Oh, I think your estimation of the jury may be misguided,” Neopol said, unperturbed by Barlow’s veiled the threat. “Have a look at the transcripts.” He handed him a tablet.

Barlow began to read. “I never said this,” he protested. “It isn’t true.”

“I am afraid that Janson and I are witnesses.” Neopol shook his head sadly. “It seems that you and your wife Carolle were involved in a conspiracy. I have notified HC and she, being a civilian, had an instant trial. The sentence passed on her was death.” He paused to let the thought sink in.

“I have no doubt that you will receive a similar sentence — or perhaps in your case it will be torture
then
death, eh?” His lips curled in a thin, mocking smile. “Don’t be concerned. You are a young, healthy man. You survived torture once, you can do it again. Your children will be placed in an orphanage; they can’t be legally adopted if they have a living parent on Cirani. Perhaps when older they will be able to be Indentured.”

An Indentureship was another word for slavery. Those who had no home or position and were unable to maintain themselves were forced into Indentureship for a period of years, preferably with a Freeworld government or, in the worst case, a commercial enterprise. After Indentureship they may have learned some trade and they would again be free citizens. Indentureships were policed, but one could never look into all of them, and certainly many people, a large portion of them children, would never survive to obtain freedom.

“Your trial starts today at 1400 hours. Did you really think that you could deceive me? Now I’ll need to find that Delian ship. You’ve wasted my time because of your pathetic flawed compassion.”

“You’ll never get away with this. I’ll testify,” Barlow said. He stood up on unsteady legs, anger overcoming the weakness in his body. “My wife and children have nothing to do with any of this. You have no evidence to implicate them. I’ll use ‘Right of Query.’ I’ll petition the Council of Civil Liberties.”

Neopol’s eyes narrowed as he delivered the final blow. “You’ll not be allowed to testify. This transcript constitutes sufficient evidence. In the interests of security it was a confidential hearing due to the use of mindtap and the severity of the crime. Your wife,” Neopol shook his head sadly, “well, I am afraid she was put to death an hour ago.” Neopol basked with pleasure in Barlow’s stunned expression.

No. No. Not Carolle.
For Captain Barlow it was the final shock. His legs gave way and he sank to the couch.

Neopol said gently, as befitted the moment, “You’re to be confined in your quarters, Mr. Barlow. There is no use in attempting to communicate. In fact, I think you’ll agree that there is no use in doing anything at all, is there?”

I
n his own quarters, Neopol replayed that last scene, the breaking of Barlow again and again. He felt a thrill of joy each time as he watched the holovid, reliving the moment. He had watched Barlow experience tremendous pain, of course, but this pain had been entirely different. This had been emotional anguish. Poor Barlow. Reduced to such a state, just finding out about the death of his wife had shattered him. Then knowing his future: life imprisonment on Cirani, and the consequent Indentureship of his children. It just didn’t get any better. After that the man had been utterly crushed and broken. A thrill of pleasure went through Neopol, a tantalizing electric caress that caused a tingle on every bit of skin on his body.
It was exquisite.

Part of his attention was on
Conqueror’s
internal monitors through Icom. His apprehension was part of the thrill. Had he judged the man correctly? Would he feel there was no other recourse? No choice except the last option that Neopol had carefully directed him toward — the final solution?

As expected, the internal sensor readings showed radiation emission. It flared briefly, and was gone.

Neopol smiled, delighted and relieved. He hadn’t misjudged anything. He jumped out of his chair in his excitement and looked at his aide. “Go to Mr. Barlow’s quarters and report what you find. Ask at least two duty officers to accompany you. I think you may discover that Captain Barlow has taken his life. So foolish. I was only planning to have him demoted. It wasn’t as if he were a spy.”

Neopol clapped his hands and began to laugh.

Sub-Lieutenant Janson stood waiting, face composed. When there was a pause in Neopol’s outburst, he replied, “Yes, sir.”

Janson left.

Neopol shook his head and began to pace the room. It was a shame he had no justification to use mindtap on his aide. Never mind. Janson was a puzzle that Neopol’s formidable intellect would take pleasure in unraveling — and solve it he would. Using mindtap to break Janson would be far too easy.

Minutes later, Janson returned, alone.

“Well?” Neopol asked.

“Sir,” Janson said in his bland, emotionless voice. “I have to report that Captain Barlow has committed suicide.”

Neopol stood near the desk and giggled. “I made certain there was no tablet there, nothing to write with. Did he attempt to leave some sort of note?”

“No, sir.”

“I didn’t think he would.” Grinning broadly, Neopol reached over and hit delete on the false transcripts he had created. Barlow was a fool to believe that he would try to get away with forgery as well as a false trial. Of course after over an hour’s torture and two maximum doses of mindtap, perhaps he hadn’t been thinking too clearly.

Neopol could have done it, of course. He could have falsified the recording of Barlow’s mindtap proceedings. Instead he had ensured that Barlow’s natural barriers had been broken down enough that he would believe anything. That story about his wife and children. That was the leverage, the event that broke him. It had been well hidden, but once found, Neopol had used the information to destroy him completely.

Neopol paused to consider Barlow’s wife. She would wonder why her husband killed himself. She would be certain that it was due to a flaw on her part. She would never know. Neopol would alter or delete any relevant Icom records. Barlow’s suicide would remain inexplicable, a mystery that would compel her to repeatedly ask herself those unanswerable questions: Was it her fault? Had she failed?

Neopol ran his hands through his short, black buzz cut, delighted. He had certainly gotten even with Barlow.

He sat back down in his recliner. There had been enough diversions. His two medical specialists were already preparing. The crew of
Conqueror
would have their memories wiped concerning the gassing of the Delian people. No Fleet personnel could be guilty of genocide. He gave a low chuckle. That might reflect badly on the government. Some plausible scapegoat would have to be found. After that he could concentrate on finding the vessel that had escaped.

It was time to recover the Testimonials and the priceless King’s Mirror.

And, above all, to kill the last of the Delians.

The Red Wolf of Opan mates for life. In winter they live in packs of three to fifteen with the strongest male as pack leader. One pup is born second-yearly. Wolves feed primarily on mammals, rodents and the native Twill, a large, prolific, flightless bird.

—
Icompedia

A
ssurance
smoldered, her hull ripped open by the impact of landing. Two people lay alive inside her, both injured and unconscious from the crash. The great vessel rested on the world of Opan, hidden in a crag near the top of a desolate mountain. Surrounded by sheer cliffs and an expanse of thick woodland, the wreck lay nowhere near human habitation. The culmination of years of skill and technology,
Assurance
was the last warship to be created and the most perfectly constructed of the entire Delian Fleet. Now the great Lady lay shattered, an epitaph to the end of an era: a monument to the extinction of a race.

Nearby a wolf pack moved through red drifts of snow in search of game. Many pack members were perilously close to starvation. Winter had been severe, with most predators leaving the mountains for the valleys in search of food. The pack leader, Long Fang, was no longer prone to such unwise and impulsive actions. A kind of deliberateness characterized his actions. He had the same instincts as any wolf, yet he had tempered his natural yearnings and the recklessness of his wild heart. Thus it was that he would not allow his pack to go further than Deep River. There were men in the valleys. He feared men and their weapons. It was not safe.

Long Fang had seen the crippled man-ship fall. He recalled a similar ship plummeting from the sky down onto the mountain peaks when he was a little more than a cub. He did not know why such a thing would occur, nor did he wonder about it or question such an occurrence. It was enough that such had happened before. Those many years ago, when Long Fang had survived his first year and had joined the pack, the leader had taken them to the broken ship. They had found food in the vessel and an unarmed man, alone and barely alive. The heavy scent of fresh blood had perfumed the air. Yet killing a man was dangerous. Other men, men with guns, would track down and kill a wolf for that. Wounded animals had always been good game, however, and in any case, the badly injured man would not have lived long.

The dim memory of the taste of human fat and flesh caused Long Fang’s mouth to salivate. He made his decision. The pack would continue the hunt while moving toward the ship. They may find game on the way. If not, there was always the chance that there may be another man, perhaps also alone and wounded, in the man-ship.

Long Fang had fought for his position as Leader. He had the scars to prove it. To lead was his right. He was the strongest of them all and he had enforced compliance many times with fierce nips of teeth, or a savage mauling that caused considerable pain but no serious injury. Only a stupid leader would kill what was his own. Long Fang wasn’t stupid. He wanted the strong to live, to be compliant and part of his pack.

Any disobedience was instantly punished, the offender held down with his strong jaws and smothered by virtue of Long Fang’s much greater weight. Any wolf that attempted to best Long Fang quickly ceased growling, snapping and biting and would soon whine for mercy. There were no more challengers. Quick thinking and quick acting, he had shown himself superior in every way. No pack member would consider questioning Long Fang’s judgment … for now. But at the start of every winter, when the wolf packs re-formed, he would have to fight for his position again. Only the strongest, fiercest and most cunning fighter could lead.

Long Fang’s mate trotted alongside him, easily matching his pace through the winter drifts of red snow. She was named Seeta, meaning “firm one.” Long Fang felt “stubborn one” would have been a more suitable title. He had chosen her for her strength, but had not understood until mated that she would dare to test him. She was rarely defiant, but when she was, Long Fang found that snarling and showing teeth — a method that would cause another wolf to immediately back down, bare their neck and submit — had little effect on her. Not when the she-wolf’s choice of path to travel was firmly set. In these rare incidences of defiance, Long Fang found that it was he that backed down.

The red wolves of Opan were a powerful breed, weighing up to two hundred kilos. Known for their intelligence and cunning, and particularly for stealing livestock, their hides commanded a large fee. With crimson coats they were easy to spot in the summer months. Summer was a time of plenty and there was little need for camouflage. In the winter, however, when food was scarce, they blended with the color of the Opan skies and snow.

Sniffing the air for prey, alert for danger, Long Fang, his mate and the wolf pack continued on toward the ship.

A
board
Assurance
, Ash regained consciousness. His fullsuit helmet had torn off during the crash
. At least it wasn’t my head,
he thought with a giddy sort of amusement. His left arm was broken midway between his wrist and his elbow, but it didn’t hurt much. He guessed he must still be in shock. The fact that his arm was at the wrong angle captured his attention. Straightening it, illogically, was his first priority. Using his good arm he held his wrist firmly, shut his eyes, and pulled the broken arm straight.

The pain of it caused him to lose consciousness once more.

When Ash again awoke, his arm, his shoulder and all the way up to his neck and jaw throbbed. He threw up and then dry retched until he lay weak and exhausted. Hot wet tears trailed down his cheeks. He had known pain, but this seemed particularly bad. Ash examined his forearm, pleased that it hadn’t been his right arm. Icom helpfully informed him that he had broken both radius and ulna, and produced a picture automatically recorded, just before he had pulled his arm straight. Icom also reported that there was a 93% probability that his bones had been accurately set. Ash almost started crying again but this time with relief. This bland Icom acknowledgment was high praise, but even better, he need not try to straighten the arm again.

Icom also recommended a cast. Ash snorted. A cast. Right. He scanned the torn wreckage that had once been a tidy, well-ordered ship. He would be lucky if he could find a medical kit in this mess.

Ash shifted to his knees. He used ship’s webbing as a compression bandage to keep the swelling down. Then he wrapped it tightly against him, as high as possible around his neck. RICE: rest, ice, compression, elevation. Ash didn’t need to refer to Icom. He had broken a bone before.

When he was done he called out, “Mother?” His mouth was dry. Getting to his feet, Ash felt giddy. He found her amongst the twisted wreckage.

“Ash,” she whispered.

“Are you hurt?” Concerned, he bent down toward her. She, too, had lost the helmet of her fullsuit, or perhaps removed it herself. Her face was dotted with perspiration even though the ship had lost all warmth. It was really, really cold. Part of the internal framework of
Assurance
had landed upon Sartha’s hips and legs, crushing them. Ash stared for a moment, stunned. There was no possibility he could free her, and even if he did the shock would kill her. Icom began to list in detail why his mother’s injuries were fatal. Ash flicked it off.

Sartha breathed in shallow, ragged gasps.

“Oh, mother,” Ash said. He blinked a number of times to clear his vision, as water filled his eyes. He felt the warmth of tears once more as they rolled down his face. He wanted to wail and scream with grief. Quiet and self contained from earliest childhood, he controlled the impulse. Ash held her hand; it was as cold as the icy wind that blew through
Assurance
.

“Mother, you can’t die …”

“Nothing can stop … that now.”

“I’m sorry about what I said … about everything.”

“Ash, it doesn’t matter … my son. Thank Jana you are … well. Quiet … now … things to tell you, I have tried … remain alive … had to tell …” Her voice faded.

“What? What is it?”

“Keep the King’s Mirror and Testimonials safe … son. I … never betrayed you … or Jarith.”

“It doesn’t matter, Mother. Really it doesn’t.” Anguish and guilt rode over him, combining with doubt. Ash had seen her infidelity. He had been there. That experience lay between them. As much as he tried to prevent it, he knew his disbelief showed.

“The … Talisman,” Sartha whispered.

Ash pulled up the leg of his fullsuit and slid the King’s Mirror off his thigh. Sartha gripped the blue Talisman fiercely, as though drawing strength from its touch. Then she held the armguard out toward Ash, so that the eye-sized jewel was before him. The Talisman gleamed.

Sartha’s breath caught. She gasped. “On my oath as … Trueborn …”

The Talisman began to glow.

“I love Jarith … and I have never betrayed him …”

The Talisman’s light grew more intense, blinding him and confirming every word. It was then that Ash understood the power of the King’s Mirror. It glowed in the presence of Truth. Sartha stopped speaking and the Talisman dimmed.

“Mother, I want to mind-touch you. Please let me.”

“No!” Sartha voiced loudly, raising her head, despite the demanding effort it took. “Ash … it could kill you … now. Read the Interpretations. It … explains.” Sartha smiled, apparently attempting to smooth the abruptness of her words. It was a peculiar smile, for it was obvious that she was in great pain.

Her forced smile dissolved and she grasped his hand. “Ash, Delian, dead … your father, dead. Beware the Dark Sankomin. You must stay safe … hide your gift.” Her eyes grew large and fearful. “You must hide it. Captain Forseth … to get … responsible.”

Ash stared at her, conflicted and confused. “Mother,” he said, “How can my father be dead? What are you talking about?”

Sartha mumbled something and Ash leaned down even closer to hear.

With her eyes unfocused, his mother now seemed to be talking to herself. Ash only made out some of her words. “Jarith … Larren.” Wells of moisture glistened at the edge of her eyes but did not spill over. It was as if her tears, like Sartha herself, seemed too weary to weep.

His mother’s eyes focused on Ash like an arrow meeting its target. Face to face, Sartha heroically raised both her head and her voice, speaking with desperation. “Save yourself, Ashton. You are … the last …” Ash heard the tortured rattle of Sartha’s shallow labored breathing. It slowed and slowed and finally ceased altogether.

Then there was silence. Sartha’s eyes closed as her body relaxed. Ash heard a soft sigh as her last breath slowly escaped her lungs. With her empty shell lying still and growing cold, Sartha was gone. And Ash was alone.

S
uddenly,
wonderfully,
all of Sartha’s pain left her.

She rose from her body … she flew from her fleshly form.

Her spirit was free.

Sartha saw Jarith in the distance. He stood on the road to the Golden Land. He smiled warmly at her and raised a hand in greeting. Sartha felt his soothing mental and spiritual caress. Jarith had been waiting. He had been waiting for her.

Time did not pass as she flew to him.

There was no distance. There was no space between them.

His eyes were bright as he raised his arms, ready to fold her against him in welcome.

“Jarith!” She reached for him with joy. “Here I am!”

A
sh sat for some minutes, staring at his mother, stroking her hair, holding her cold hand. Hot tears continued to roll down his face and he ignored them. Eventually he made the sign of Jana, touching his chest and forehead. He said, “Peace be with you, Mother. May you be born again, finding purpose, understanding and love.”

Ash felt lost. Even the throbbing pain in his arm couldn’t touch him. The silence of his mother’s death left him with a strange roaring in his ears.

His mother was dead.

Grief caused his heart to ache with a pain greater than the burning throb of his injured arm. He recalled when he mind-touched her. The stupid embarrassment he had felt at her love.
“My son, my son, my beautiful son.”
All the special moments he had had with his mother crowded into his mind.

He had been mean to her, had called her a traitor and an off-world whore, and now she was dead. She said his father the King was also dead. The talisman glowed in affirmation when she vowed she hadn’t betrayed his father. Could it be true? The King’s Mirror would know. But how could that be, when she had willingly gone with Forseth?

It was all too much and there was no time to think about it or to grieve. Sartha had told him. He must save himself.

He wiped his eyes and fastened the talisman back onto his thigh. Searching through the wreckage, Ash found an aid kit. The painkilling drugs looked appealing as his wound was burning, but not yet. For now he must be clear-headed. He was far too weak already.

He peered out of a torn and broken section of
Assurance
and scanned his surroundings. They appeared to have landed near the top of a mountain, although the ship itself was protected, wedged between two cliff faces. It was dusky dark outside. Thick, low-lying red clouds blocked any light or warmth from a feeble sun. The sky of this alien planet was deep scarlet. Windblown flurries of crimson snow pounded against his face like tiny, blood-red icicles. He moved back inside.