The Orphan Alliance (The Black Ships Book 3) (10 page)

The
Dawang Cheng

D
wight
stared at his coffee. It was the same thing every morning: Wiley, an orderly
from the
Midway,
would bring him a cup of coffee along with whatever he
could scrounge from the current ship’s mess by way of breakfast. Dwight would
make a half-hearted attempt at eating so as not to insult the young man, who
seemed to hold him in awe as the one who brought immortality to the fleet.

And then the killing would begin.

This was his fourth Chinese ship, or maybe the fifth – he
wasn’t sure anymore and, though he could have asked Wiley and gotten a definite
answer, he was too numb to care. A television outside their cordoned area of
the hangar bay was playing the Mandarin version of the video that Dwight had
suggested.

He listened idly to the voice, his mind overlaying the basic
information from the English version. The speaker introduced himself, going on
to state his expected lifespan now that he had been given his shot and cleared
the one-hour testing period. Dwight had no idea how long it might take to say
the same phrases in Mandarin, but the intonation seemed to indicate that the
speaker was now explaining the process.

After the shots, the crewmen would remain in restraints for
an hour. Those who showed no signs of the mutated virus would be released to
their duties, secure in the knowledge that they would now live for at least ten
times the normal Human span.

Those who fell into that small – very small – percentage
(Dwight was certain he had noticed that reinforcement in the speech) would be
given privacy and an hour to record a final message for comrades and family.
After the hour, they would receive a shot that would prevent them having to go
through the horrific process of
turning
.

Those who chose to forgo the final hour could opt to have
their second shot immediately.

This assignment was actually supposed to be an easier
rotation. Strauss and two of his doctors were each leading similar clinics on
three of the carriers today. They had overridden Dwight’s insistence that he be
responsible for every termination in the fleet and were, even now, preparing
their doses on the massive hangar decks of the biggest vessels ever made by
Humans. They had guessed at Dwight’s reasons, rightly assuming he had taken on
the task as a penance of sorts. They had wrongly assumed that the self assigned
punishment was for bringing the plague to the fleet.

It was for his role in
creating
the plague in the
first place.

With a crew of only twenty-five hundred, the huge supply
ship would probably average three doomed crewmen per hour, while Strauss and
his doctors would face closer to forty. After they had finished those three
carriers, they would spend the next ten days in a marathon of death,
vaccinating the remaining thirty carriers. They would then join Dwight as he
worked his way through the smaller cruisers, frigates and support ships. One
welcome distraction, oddly enough, was the culture shock encountered on the
various ships.

The first thing that he had noticed when boarding a Chinese
ship hadn’t been the language; it was the uniformity. Their uniforms were
falling apart, just as uniforms were fast deteriorating aboard the western
vessels, but on the Chinese ships officers of the various divisions still
enforced a uniform look.

If several crew members had worn the lower cuffs off their
fatigues, common in engineering sections where low mounted pipe fittings often
snagged at the fabric, then the entire division was made to shorten their
trousers. Weapons techs, who often ripped their sleeves while servicing the
vessels various guns, were now uniformly short-sleeved.

The other major difference was the smaller Marine escort.
Drawn from the
Hexi Zoulang,
Admiral Hu’s flagship, they were typically
half the escort Dwight arrived with when inoculating a western vessel. Despite
their fear of the process, the Chinese crews seemed loath to display their
reluctance in front of him.

Disturbances still occurred but far less frequently. He had
no idea if it was a cultural thing or simply a product of the iron discipline
found aboard the PLA vessels.

He realized Wiley was there, trying to catch his attention.
The inoculation team, drawn from the
Dawang Cheng’s
sick bay, was ready
to begin testing. Sighing, Dwight gave a nod and the white-coated men and women
headed for their assigned cubicles.

In just a few minutes, he would know how many crew from this
shift would require his services. He would be killing them in just over an
hour, assuming nobody wanted to have their shot immediately.

For a crew of just over five thousand, the team would
vaccinate roughly seventeen hundred per shift. That meant he would have to
inject roughly thirty people every eight hours. If previous experience was any
guide, the unfortunate crew members aboard this vessel were less likely to take
their despair out on him as he administered their terminal injection.

He actually felt better when the patient raged at him. It
somehow made him feel less like a fraud.

It would be hours before he grew tired enough to catch any
sleep between the injections. With a hundred patients per hour, odds would
always be in favor of there being three or more crew from each batch in which
the retrovirus had mutated. On previous vessels, he had actually managed to get
almost a full hour of sleep between the terminations.

Every time, he had been horrified that he was able to sleep
while some poor young man or woman was recording their last thoughts for
transmission. The medical staff doing the injections were relieved every eight
hours, but he didn’t begrudge them their reprieve. After all, they were only
doing what was necessary.

Necessary because of his own research.

At loose ends for the moment, he took his coffee and exited
the forest of temporary cubicles, walking to the starboard side of the hangar.
He sat on the open rear ramp of a shuttle and took a tentative sip of the black
liquid.

It hadn’t been so long ago that he had been part of the
research team that created the plague. They had no idea of the horrors they
would unleash upon Earth. At the time, they had been focused on replicating the
incredible longevity of the Midgaard. The limit of his cynicism had been his
assumption that the discovery would be tightly controlled by the political and
economic elite.

In his wildest dreams, he had never imagined Earth with more
than three quarters of the population dead.
Not just dead,
he corrected
himself.
Dead but still walking.

He looked up as the first of the patients were being released.
All the usual emotions were visible. Some showed relief at knowing they
wouldn’t be dead in the next hour. A few seemed to realize they might not even
be dead several centuries from now. They were the ones with the quietly
meditative attitude. A few, invariably, chatted and joked as they headed for
the hangar exit.

Almost all of them looked around at their fellow survivors,
trying to identify who might be missing. One had stopped and moved to the side,
close to where Dwight sat. He watched his emerging comrades, looking calm but
for the constant clenching and unclenching of his fists. He wore the unified
fleet insignia of a petty officer.

Dwight often took up station at the exit. He found it was
one of the few things keeping him sane. Seeing the thousands of survivors,
knowing they would live for centuries, was the only compensation for having to
kill those who would turn as a result of the failed injections. Sometimes,
scenes like this managed to sour his compensation.

An orderly came out from behind the temporary wall as the
crowd was thinning. He saw the waiting man and headed for him. During the short
conversation, the young petty officer’s shoulders began to sag and his fists
opened to hang listlessly by his side. The orderly indicated the wall with a
wave of his hand before stepping away to approach Dwight.

“We have only one patient for you this time, Dr. Young.” He
looked down at the tablet in his hand. “A young
hai jun zhong wei –
a
junior lieutenant.
”
By standing orders, the names were never provided to
Dwight. “She is waiting for her husband to join her, but she does not wish a
long goodbye.”

The standard prohibition against fraternization between
commissioned and non-commissioned personnel had been struck down not long after
the fleet had realized they were cut off from Earth. With a looming personnel
shortage and the knowledge that they might never see home again, the balance
between discipline and survival had shifted quickly. As long as a couple
registered their intentions, it was now legal for an NCO and an officer to
enter into a relationship.

That didn’t mean the fleet had turned into a love-in. There
had already been a trial of a lieutenant and one of his subordinates for
concealing their affair. Though fraternization was now permitted, it was still
forbidden for the two participants to work together. It was incredibly
injurious to discipline and good order for an officer to be sleeping with one
of his or her NCO’s. Every decision would be scrutinized and dissected by the
other crew members who would suspect favoritism in a service that often
demanded dangerous activity.

Their crime had not been the affair but, rather, their
failure to report it. A simple transfer would have allowed them to continue in
their relationship, but they had sought to hide it, unwilling to work apart. In
consequence, the officer had lost his commission and the NCO had been broken
back to ordinary seaman. They were still together, but now they had to share
much smaller accommodations.

The coffee felt sour in Dwight’s half empty-stomach. “I’ll
be right there,” he replied. He watched the orderly walk away.
He may hate
this work, but at least his patients still have hope when he injects them with
the serum. All I have to offer is a quiet death.
He got up and walked back
into the team cubicle where the doses were stored.

Setting his coffee mug down on top of the small portable
refrigerator, he leaned down and took out two dose packages. There would be two
intravenous lines, one in each of the young officer’s arms. The second was
there as a backup. If anything went wrong with the first line, he needed to be
able to move on quickly to the second. Nobody should have to wait for technical
difficulties when they were facing the end of their life.

He sat on the stool, noticing, now, the muffled sounds of
abject despair that came from the other side of the low walls. His throat
burned as he fought down the wave of emotion. He remembered one young woman on
the
Trafalgar
who hadn’t learned of her man’s death until it was too late.
The seaman couldn’t bear the idea of her watching him die and so he used his
recording to say goodbye.

She had screamed and raged. Including everyone in her wrath,
reserving the greatest anger for her departed mate for not giving her the
chance to say goodbye. Dwight had stood by helplessly until one of the
orderlies had gently reminded her that there were others waiting for her to
stop so they could record their own last words to send home.

Absorbing the rebuke, she had nodded silently and then left,
finally accepting the data chip with her lover’s last message.

There was Wiley again. God, how he was coming to hate the
man’s face! Dwight stood and followed him into the cubicle where the young
couple waited. The petty officer was by the gurney, holding the officer’s hand
where it was strapped to the rails.

By any standard, she was a lovely woman and Dwight fought
back an image of the same face covered with lesions, the skin loose and
translucent. Without these shots, it would be inevitable. Without Dwight and
his old research team, none of this would have happened. He stood by the left
hand IV and waited quietly.

The young woman looked up at him, her eyes rimmed red and
her cheeks wet. She nodded and turned back to her husband who leaned over to
press his face against hers. They sobbed quietly as Dwight injected the large
dose of barbiturate. In less than half a minute, she fell quiet and the petty
officer buried his face against her neck, unable to control his anguish any
longer.

Dwight slipped out as quietly as he could and headed back
for the small refrigerator. He knelt and opened the door, stopping to stare at
the needle in his hand.
No easy escape for you,
he thought.
You
haven’t even begun to pay your debt…

He put the needle back and closed the door. He would be
needing it again within the next two hours. Dwight headed for his cot. He
didn’t think he would sleep, but he was too drained to deal with anyone. Wiley
might even leave him alone if he thought he was sleeping.

Caurtez, Tauhento

H
arry
was feeling the thrill of the hunt, even though it was starting to look like an
easy takedown. Ro’j Yoyeco didn’t seem to have a care in the worlds. The
smuggler stopped at a food vendor, the shop’s permanent concrete foundation
proudly proclaiming the long lease enjoyed by its owners. This was the kind of
place where you could eat without poisoning yourself for half a week.

Harry had quickly learned to steer clear of any food vendor
that had mag lifters on it. His ancient memories of Oaxes were much the same.
The markets were constantly shifting masses of various sized structures.
Alleyways appeared and disappeared on a regular basis as shops came and went.

As word got out about a vendor selling tainted meat or
passing off carrion-eaters as prime fowl, the proprietor would send out a
family member to scout a new location. Shortly after nightfall, the entire shop
would lift off while his employees scrambled about the exterior scaffolds,
changing the appearance with apparent disregard for their own safety.

There had even been stories about workers falling from shops
as they relocated. That in itself was not extraordinary in a market district,
but the rumors that some shops subsequently ran a special on
rooter ghirache
in their new locations gave one pause when making lunch plans.

The large rooters were very similar to the wild hogs on
Earth and, like their terran cousins, could easily be mistaken for humanoid
flesh.

Certainly, no fly-by-night shop would ever dare to serve any
kind of rooter dish anymore, for fear of the public reaction.

“He’s having lunch,” Harry muttered quietly into his
headset. “When he comes out, we’ll start herding him your way.” The heady
atmosphere of pungent spices had him wishing he was inside the restaurant with
his target.

“I’ll be ready,” Lothbrok replied. “There’s two Dactari
patrolmen just in front of our location. If he’s as cozy with them as you say,
he’ll likely appeal to them for help. Otherwise, no witnesses around.”

“Excellent,” Harry answered with indecent relish. “It puts
him exactly where we want him. I’ll deal with the guards.” He turned to the
local next to him, switching to Oaxian, a language that still survived from
their colonial origins. “Just make sure you get behind him. I want to shake him
up before he runs.”

Vo’x grinned. The revolutionary had been quick to contact
Harry and Lothbrok. The markets were largely unregulated. By commercial
standards, they were small pickings for the Republic. It was the province of
the individual Dactari patrolmen, who squeezed bribes from the shops and, in
turn, passed a portion up the chain to their superiors.

It was a source of revenue that the separatists also sought,
and with more success than their enemies. The shopkeepers were far more enthusiastic
about giving up some of their profits if it meant thumbing their noses at the
Republic. Those shopkeepers were also a source of an even more valuable
commodity.

Information.

Word of two Alliance officers making inquiries in fluent, if
dated, Oaxian was sure to reach the ears of the resistance leaders. They had
acted quickly, bringing Harry and Lothbrok into one of the shops used to
coordinate revolutionary efforts. The two were almost the same size as the
Oaxian-descended Tauhentans, but there was always a chance a Dactari patrol
might bump into them and realize that they didn’t quite belong.

Through generations of low-intensity conflict, the
resistance had carried out an endless series of hit-and-run attacks. Their
overall effect had been little more than a nuisance to a Republic determined to
maintain their hold on the planet. When the two Alliance officers had proposed
their scheme of garrisoning a free Tauhento in return for tax support, they had
shown great enthusiasm.

The dream of countless generations was finally,
realistically, in their grasp. They were more than willing to cooperate in this
small, first step.

Harry and Vo’x walked to the door of the shop, just in time
to flank Ro’j as he exited with a small white package of food. Harry grinned.
The last time he had seen the smuggler, it had been in a similar market in
Presh. He had claimed to be leaving the shuttle to get food for them.

That was less than ten minutes before Harry was captured.

“Hi, Ro’j,” Harry began in a light tone, using Dheema. “I
have to say, I’m impressed that you came all the way back to Tauhento to get me
my food. Might be a little cold, though, by the time you get back to Presh with
it.”

Ro’j’s eyes widened in alarm. “Harry!” A sly look flashed
briefly across his face as his gaze swept the crowd. He was quick witted, but
not half as quick as he thought. “When I got back with the food, there was a
huge crowd of those sour-faced Dactarii surrounding the shuttle.” He took a
step back, no doubt preparing to run. He bumped into Vo’x who gave him a rough
shove.

He collided with Harry, his package of food split open,
spilling out onto his own chest. Harry shoved him to the left, sending him
sprawling. “Get off me! You’re covered in
Ghirache
sauce.” The Human
leaned down and grinned. “You are what you eat.” He nodded at the spilled food
on the smuggler’s chest. “Or you will be, soon enough!”

The smuggler scrambled to his feet and ran away from his two
assailants, thrusting his way desperately through the crowd.

“He’s coming your way,” Harry told Lothbrok. “We’ll stay
close behind him. As soon as he starts talking to the guards, I’ll kill them
while you nab the target.”

“What if he just runs past them?”

“He won’t.” Harry was
almost
as certain as he
sounded. “This is his home base. If he’s friendly with the Dactari, then he’s
sure to know the local officers. If he thinks he’s about to die, he’ll head for
the strongest friends he has. He also knows I’m worth money to him. He’s sold
me once already, so he’s thinking he can sell me to the local Dactari here on
Tauhento and score points with the local commander.”

Ro’j tried to take a left turn but found a dangerous-looking
individual staring straight at him. He went right instead, finding no
resistance. He was slowly herded toward the ambush until he rounded a corner
and saw the two guards sharing a ceramic tube filled with a mildly narcotic
weed.

“There’s an Alliance officer right behind me,” he gasped out
in Dheema.

The Dactari on the left stared dumbly at him for a few
moments. “Huh?”

The second patrolman lowered the tube. “You’re speaking out
of your
clo
… cloaca! Is... is it an… invasion?” He
broke down into helpless giggles.

“I’m serious, you idiots,” Ro’j shrieked at them. “Call your
commander right now and tell him…
Huaaagggh
.” He went
down, convulsing from the tiny electric dart that Lothbrok had just shot into
his back.

“I’m not, umm… I’m not telling Chorelna that.” The guard
stifled a huge yawn as he watched the smuggler twitch at his feet. “He’d put me
on… bomb disposal for a …” His meandering sentence ended in a strangled cry as
Harry sliced his throat.

The second guard watched his companion fall in dull silence,
uttering no sound as the blade came back to drive through his own temple.

Vo’x shook his head at the two bodies. “Both of ‘em were
completely curdled on lagweed.” He offered his hand, palm up. “We’ll get rid of
these two,” he offered as Lothbrok waved his own hand, palm down, over Vo’x’s
in the old Imperial handshake. “We’ll be ready,” Vo’x added. “When we see the
station destroyed, we’ll do our part down here.”

“It will happen this morning.” Harry resisted the urge to
warn Vo’x that the raid in orbit might not be the success they required. There
was no way to warn him without revealing the true target of the pending attack.
If he started telling allies about the logistics tracking system, the Dactari
would get wind of the scheme and shut the system down.

That in itself would be a small victory, but the Alliance
was hoping for something bigger. They needed to goad the enemy into a fight
while that system was still broadcasting all Dactari ship locations. They
needed to hit the Republic hard before the secret got out and the momentary
advantage was lost.

 Lothbrok and Harry dragged the drooling smuggler into
the shop where the Midgaard had been hiding. Lothbrok grinned at the owner who
sat, bound, in the back corner with a gag over his mouth. “Won’t be long now,”
he told the poor man in fluent Oaxian. Lothbrok had been one of the first to
receive Harry’s extracted memories after the return from Oaxes. If he was going
to be the warlord of an ancient Oaxian colony, he needed all the information he
could get.

One of Vo’x’s people activated the controls and, to the
public eye, another questionable shop lifted off to find a new location in the
market. The actual destination was a nearby maintenance district, where the two
Alliance officers had parked their Weiran shuttle. The flight path would
attract no attention and it saved them the difficulties of exiting the market on
foot with an unconscious prisoner.

Once on the shuttle, they heaved their guest onto one of the
benches that ran along both sides of the cargo bay. Harry slapped Ro’j’s face.
“Wake up!”

Slowly, the smuggler’s eyes began to focus. He looked around
dumbly, looking for all the worlds as though he had been smoking lagweed
himself.

“Hey, stew meat, I need you to focus,” Harry shouted at him.

Ro’j looked at Harry for a few seconds and then his eyes
widened in alarm.

“There we go!” Lothbrok said cheerfully. “He remembers you
now.”

 “When we get into orbit,” Harry told the smuggler,
“I’m going to put you behind the controls. You’re going to dock us at the
logistics station and sell me back to the Dactari.”

The smuggler frowned. “Sell you to the Dactarii? What the
hells for?”

“Never mind why,” Harry replied as he leaned down, putting
his face within inches of the frightened Tauhentan. “Just remember what I want
done or I’ll start cutting off parts of your face.”

Ro’j shuddered, leaning back until his head was against the
hull. “I can’t just dock with a Dactari station.”

“Sure you can,” Harry stood up as the back ramp began to
close. “You’re one of the smugglers they allow to operate in contravention of
their own laws. You’re useful to them, which is why they make you report in
every time you return to Tauhento.”

“Like you did seven hours ago, you lying sack of excrement,”
Lothbrok cut in.

The engines began to whine as the shuttle lifted off.

Harry grabbed an overhead tray of conduits to steady himself
as the vehicle shifted. He looked back down at his prisoner. “How much did they
pay you last time you sold me?”

“Fifty thousand
imperii
,” came the
sullen reply.

Harry nodded. “Not bad, I suppose. You have to start
somewhere.” He appeared to give the matter some thought for a moment. “Better
ask for eighty, this time.”