Chapter 11 is now complete.
Here are links to the previous chapters.
Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10,
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Chapter 11 – Imprisoned
Ever so slowly, awareness slowly crept back into Marcus Gromwell’s battered head. Perhaps it had not been such a good idea to antagonise his Split captors, but it was in his blood to fight back however he could. Peering through the gloom he could see he was in an ill lit cell. From the rough-hewn stone walls he assumed that General Dhjn had carried out his threat and transferred him to one of the mines. He wondered whether the other pilots had met a similar fate. Pulling himself off the floor, Gromwell began to examine the walls, trying to find some means of escape, or at least something, which might be used as a weapon. The search proved fruitless. The bare rock walls provided no exit and barring himself there was nothing else within the cell.
As Gromwell eased himself back to the floor, trying to rub life back to his aching limbs, the solid metal door screeched as it was opened. In hustled a trio of Split warriors, armed with stun batons and laser pistols. Two of them seized Gromwell, hauling him to his feet. The third began striking Gromwell with his baton, not bothering even to activate its power cell. Through the haze of pain, he could just make out the words of a fourth Split as it entered the room.
“ENOUGH, show some respect for our distinguished guest.” Gromwell could just see a faint image of colourful robes, through his blackened eyes. “Welcome to our humble facility.” The voice continued.
“Who the hell are you?” Asked Gromwell, spitting blood from a cut lip.
“Now, now, I am the warden of this mine and you are my guest, one who will be staying for the rest of his miserable life.” The warden answered with a chuckle.
Gromwell spat more blood. “The universe preserve us from mixed together clichés! Not very original are you?”
The warden struck Gromwell across the cheek, the blow sending him sprawling across the floor. “Silence, I find your insolence tiresome. These guards will show you to your new duties.” The warden paused to see Gromwell’s reaction. “I’m afraid they are not quite as glamorous as you are used too, but rejoice in the knowledge that you will contribute to the greater good.”
“I’m honoured.” Gromwell groaned through the pain.
With a final smirk, the warden hurried from the room. The trio of guards picked Gromwell up form the floor again and dragged him out of the cell. Judging from the rock of the corridors walls, it appeared that he was deep in the asteroid core. The corridor seemed long, but by allowing the guards to do the hard work, his strength began to return. At least a little. In the distance, but growing louder came the harsh sounds of vibrohammers and pickaxes. They were clearly approaching one of the main ore seams.
After a few mizuras of being dragged along the dim lit corridors, Gromwell saw he was being brought to a large open grotto. The noise of mining filled his ears with a roar. He could see several hundred slave workers hammering and chiselling away at the craggy walls. Some pounding the raw ore into smaller scraps, ready to be loaded onto huge carts which would take it to the furnaces for smelting.
The guards threw him roughly to the floor. “Pick yourself off the floor.” The oldest of the trio said, the one who had beaten him. “Here is axe, to work now.” The Split thrust a rust pickaxe into his hands and vaguely pointed towards an empty space on the wide glittering wall. When the guards had finally shoved him to the wall, they manacled his leg with a heavy chain to a small group of slaves. Gromwell began to hack the wall rapidly with the pickaxe, causing fractures in the rock surface. The guards seemed to become placated by this apparent show of compliance and so moved off.
Keeping a wary eye for guards, Gromwell began to lessen the pace of his hammering. He glanced at the downcast expressions of his fellow workers. He could see the sunken eye sockets and the emaciated limbs from overwork and malnutrition. Several appeared to have weeping sores. All the slaves around him seemed to be in a sorry sate. He briefly pondered planning a revolt, but given the poor state of his new companions, he did not see how it could succeed. He would have to hope for a rescue or that somehow the GDI would be successful.
“This is lots of fun.” He said, smiling to the slaves about him. “Warm shelter and exercise, these Split are really spoiling us.” The slaves did not react to the weak joke, they just continued to hack away numbly against the rock face. Gromwell was a little disheartened by the acceptance transmitted by the other workers, clearly their spirits had been crushed long ago.
He toiled for several stazuras, tearing huge chunks of the wall away to reveal the veins of ore, vital for the construction of so many goods on the interstellar market. Eventually a great siren sounded, signalling the end of the shift. Gromwell looked down at his hands, they were raw with blisters, and cut where sharp rocks had lacerated them. He hoped things would resolve for the better soon, he had no idea how long he could keep this pace up.
+++
The asteroid strewn system of Shareholders’ Fortune was the perfect setting for clandestine meetings. The huge rolling lumps of primordial rock span slowly through space in the slow dance they began when the solar system had been born. A ship sped silently, leaping from asteroid to asteroid, trying to appear unobtrusive as it headed for a large hollow rock. A second ship appeared slinking slowly from within the heart of a dust cloud. The two craft met outside the gaping maw of the hollow asteroid. A brief flurry of signal lights flickered between the ships and then they slowly manoeuvred into the asteroid.
Within the hollow core of the asteroid sat a small listening post, bored into the rocky crust. The pair of ships slowed to a crawl as they moved to dock, each heading for one of a pair of airlocks. The station was small. Not even large enough to fit a proper docking bay. Once the airlocks finished cycling, two Split garbed in warrior’s robes stepped into the small bay. The elder of the pair was General Dhjn. “Ah, Biskhas N’etesh, it is a pleasure to finally meet, you have served the family well.” The general said to the younger Split.
“You do me a great honour by meeting me General.” Biskhas replied, beaming the strange upside-down Split smile . “How may I be of assistance.”
“Tell me of events in the outer sectors?” Dhjn asked eagerly. “Is Njy still posturing with the Boron and the Argon?”
“I fear there is grave news, although neither side will totally demilitarize, several units on both sides have been recalled. It looks like things are calming down.” Biskhas sounded wary he did not want to be subjected to Dhjn’s wrath.
“It is too soon for such actions.” The General replied. “We must rekindle their ardour. You will return to Njy territory and continue to act as a military official. When the opportunity presents itself you will lead your squadron into Hila’s Joy and cause as much havoc as possible.”
“As you command, Lord General.” Biskhas tried to sound confident, despite having just been ordered to his death and of course to set off an interstellar war.
+++
The main hanger of the GDI headquarters in the Light of Heart sector was filled with lines of people standing to attention. The crowd was a riot of colours, many were dressed in the full dress uniform of the GDI fleet, others in colourful flight suits or newly cleaned crew overalls. The one common feature was a single black armband worn on the right sleeve of every member of this audience. Standing at a podium before the main airlock to the docking bays stood Petre Shacklock his eyes sunken with fatigue and grief.
“We are gathered today to remember those who have perished in the cause of freedom.” He began. “Many brave men and women of all races have lost their lives in the past few wozuras holding back the chaos and oppression, which looms over us all.” The crowd stirred with emotion as he read through the list of pilots and crews who had died in the recent missions against the maverick Family Jxu. Every member of the audience knew someone who had died and the anger and grief was palpable as they met to mourn their passing.
Marching to the podium with Dureena Fielding, Commander Dentil placed a hand on Shacklock’s shoulder in support. Shacklock’s voice had begun to crack under the strain.
As the last name was read, Fielding leaned towards Shacklock’s ear and whispered. “Let me continue.” Shacklock nodded, relieved that he would have a chance to compose himself. As she stepped to the microphone on the podium, Dentill began to scan the crowd, trying to send waves of support through the eye contact. He was gratified to see the number of his colleagues who tried to return the support.
“Many of our comrades have fallen holding the line against the darkness.” Fielding opened her speech. “A darkness against which, even the might of our parent civilisations have been impotent to stop. Each of our dead is a Hero; they have proven their worth in the eyes of posterity. We may have been hurt by our foes, yet despite their propaganda we are not broken we still stand strong. We stand now to honour the fallen as is proper but soon we will have buried our dead and will return with greater resolve. All of you have proved that with a just cause, miracles can be worked, we are proud of what you have accomplished.”
Dentill could see that the massed ranks of pilots, ground crew and security personal seemed to stand a little taller, He knew each of them had gone beyond that which even the Navy was often called upon to accomplish. He was impressed with the fervour of Fielding’s speech.
“Yet even in the midst of our grief we must not forget the comrades who even now are being held by our enemy. Our fallen friends will not rest easy until they are freed. Let us unite once again to lend our aid and in so doing prove the strength of our brotherhood in arms.”
“Hell yeah!” Shouted one of the newer pilots, punching the air with a fist.
“Lets stick it to them.” Added another.
Dentil began to become uneasy. He respected the grief of his pilots and support crews, but he did not want that to be turned into an uncontrollable thirst for vengeance. Any attack fought with such emotion would lead to many more deaths. It was time to bring a stabilising influence.
“Comrades and friends.” He called. “I thank the squadron leader for her words, they are fitting reminders for those who have been killed. Still, in our grief we must not forget our goals.”
A low murmur filled the room. Some pilots were in agreement, yet others were now passionately ready to thrust themselves upon the enemy.
“We will draw up a plan, which will save our friends, yet we must not lose our heads. Our colleagues in the clutches of the Split will not wish to be freed at the cost of more deaths.” He tried to sound reassuring. “Hold your heads up high we have worked wonders together and I am impressed.” The crowd began to cheer. He held up a hand for silence. “Parade dismissed.”
As groups of pilots and support staff began to filter from the hangar deck, Dentill walked over to the group of senior officers clustered around Petre Shacklock. He could hear Captain Greene speaking to Fielding. “Nice speech, Dureena, but don’t you think it was a bit heavy for the occasion?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Fielding replied frowning.
“I think what the captain is saying is that it was quite strongly focused on striking back rather than on regaining our strength.” Shacklock added trying to avoid a confrontation.
“Actually I meant it seemed more along the lines of banner waving and rhetoric. I half expected to hear a band kick in playing the national anthem!” Greene replied, a quirky smile on his face.
Before Fielding could turn her sudden blustering into a response, Dentill intervened. “Greene was correct, it was a powerful speech and I thank you for it I think the crew needed it. Right now we need to come up with a rescue plan, can you all head to the war room and I will follow in a mizura. I just need to speak to Petre.”
Dentill and Shacklock waited for the hangar to clear of personnel. “It looks like the pressure is beginning to tell.” Shacklock said, in measured tones.
“Understandable, we have been at this none stop now for several wozuras, I think we need a break. I feel we will need this rescue needs to be fast, and covert, no all guns blazes for this strike.” Dentill replied.
“Well I will support you with whatever you decide.” Shacklock offered.
“Thanks, lets get to the briefing, we need to be quick to catch the Split off guard.” Dentill increased his pace towards the lift to the combat operations level. Shacklock scurried behind on his short legs. Once in the lift, the journey was swift.
As they walked into the war room, Dentill could see the determined faces of the headquarters staff. Several squadron commanders were seated at the conference table along with the starship captains, Greene and Tambla. At the far end of the table on his own, trying to look inconspicuous, sat Commander Schmidt of Argon Intelligence. For a moment Dentill simply glared at him, then took his seat, nodding greeting to the assembled leaders.
“Ok we all know why we are here. We have to come up with a plan to rescue the missing pilots from the Split.” Dentill replied.
“Excuse me sir, but we don’t know where they are being held. Or do you have more intelligence?” Asked one of the squadron commanders.
“That’s one of the reasons we need to be cautious in our planning.” Dentill replied. “We have narrowed it down to a few possibilities.” He nodded to Loralaminckstros.
“It is common Split practice to put captured enemies to work in their mines as a means of proving their dominance.” The Paranid explained. “There is no reason to consider this not the case here.”
“This leaves us only two possibilities. One of the mines.” Dentill added.
“It won’t be the ex-GDI mine.” Interrupted Schmidt.
“Oh pray enlighten us with your wisdom, commander.” Dentill’s disdain was barely concealed.
“Look, I know the previous mission failed badly, but it wasn’t from incorrect intelligence. I have spent years trying to understand and predict Split behaviour.” Schmidt was trying to be placatory. “The Split are not stupid and are unlikely to trust the security of a facility which we may still have the access codes to.”
“He has a point commander.” Said Greene. “We ought to give it a shot, if nothing else we may be able to gather some intelligence, and free whatever slaves are being held in the mine.”
Nods of assent were made around the table. Dentill saw that his subordinates were determined to make the attempt.
“Ok, well it was my idea to organise this attack. However I don’t want us sending in a massed fleet, it will quickly draw undue attention.”
“Might I suggest infiltration.” Loralaminckstros proposed. “One of our captured Iguanas with an altered IFF would make an effective means to transport an assault party.”
“It has merit, but it is a terrible risk. There is no way we could provide it with support.” Dentill countered.
“We have been modifying our jumpdrive on the Euripides, and I believe that we will be able to make a gateless jump.” Said Captain Tambla, entering the debate. “So long as a hyper-comm. capable navsat is deployed and transmitting for time enough for us to jump in.” he added.
“That would help supply a speedy get away, but I am concerned about infiltration of the facility.” Dentill replied.
“I speak fluent Split.” Loralaminckstros added. “Our races are after all still allies. Even if they detect my species, they may not be too suspicious.”
“I guess we you all have answers to my objections, shall we run the plan once more to clarify?” Dentill sounded resigned.
Loralaminckstros began to run through the briefing. “An assault team will be transported in a modified Iguana piloted by myself to the ore mine we believe the prisoners to be held in.”
“The first priority is going to have to be jamming outgoing signals from the station, we don’t want reinforcements coming too soon.” Added Captain Greene.
“Indeed. Once the station is secured, any GDI pilots we find plus any slaves we will be loaded onto the Iguana.” Loralaminckstros continued.
“What if there is not enough space on the transport?” Dentill queried.
“In such circumstances we will have to commandeer additional ships from the station.” Loral suggested. “Once the passengers are aboard, the ship or ships will exit the station and deploy an advanced navsat, signalling the Euripides to jump in.”
“At which point Loral with any other ships will dock and we will jump out.” Tambla concluded.
“I would like to lead the assault party.” Schmidt spoke up again.
“What?” Dentil exclaimed. “Or rather, why would you volunteer?”
“I guess it is because I know I have lost your respect after the recent debacle and want to prove myself.” Schmidt replied. “I have combat training. I started in the militia.”
Dentill was surprised he had not expected Schmidt to volunteer, let alone have formal military training. Perhaps he was not quite so bad after all. “Ok, I guess I have been a little hard on you, I don’t like to lose people. Still it will be me leading the assault team, though you can come along, I know you are good with electronics.”
“We will need about sixty security troops with combat armour and assault rifles.” Loralaminckstros calculated. “That will give us enough flexibility to tackle most eventualities.”
“That may take a couple of tazuras, as I will have to draft in teams from other stations.” Shacklock spoke for the first time.
“Good then we will begin in three tazuras.” Dentill seemed to be content with the plan although he added. “Fielding, I want you to try and load your squadron onto the Euripides, we will be need a few fighters in case the Split begin to react too early.”
“I’ll try to remember to leave you some space to dock” Fielding quipped with a wide grin.
“Excellent, it looks like we have a plan. Now we just have to hope that we can pull it off.” Dentill said, closing the meeting.
+++
Marcus Gromwell knew he had been imprisoned in the ore mine for tazuras. Yet with no access to a chronometer, he had no real concept of the passage of time. With all the labour he had been forced to do he felt like he had been incarcerated for wozuras.
Early on he had begun to try and encourage his fellow slaves, he offered them support and helped them with their heavy loads. As time passed he realised that their spirits were already crushed and it was unlikely that many still harboured the hope of freedom. He still tried to instil some desire for freedom, but he doubted that he was making much progress. Even his rowdy singing after work shifts had ended produced little more than a smile from a few of the slaves.
Oddly though, Gromwell had actually become quite popular with the overseers of the mine. He dug more ore, carried heavier loads and displayed few signs of fatigue, and thus his work crew would always have the highest productivity. Appreciative of the bonuses they were gaining thanks to his labours, they treated him with wary respect. He was provided with more food and limited freedom to roam about the quarters after shifts. Thanks to his superior diet, he was able to maintain his strength.
His most recent shift had finished perhaps a stazura ago. He was sat in the slave barracks, eating his meal with his work crew. The thick gruel, which was provided, was tasteless but it did provide much needed nourishment. He had managed to gather a fairly large crowd as he told tales to the circle of listening slaves.
A young man, barely out of his early teens asked. “So you really fought in the battle of Black Hole Sun? Those Xenon are terrible.”
“Oh yes it was a tough fight. Waves of bombers and interceptors kept boiling from the gate. We were nearly overwhelmed until the Terrible jumped in and took out the pair of Xenon cruisers.” Gromwell replied.
“Wow, I was living in Treasure Chest then. My parents let me watch as the defence squadrons launched from the trading station, it was quite a sight.” The youth said.
“Boy, that was over ten Jazuras ago, you are making me feel old!” Gromwell laughed.
There were grins around the room as for a brief moment the slaves thought of better times. Gromwell began to tell more stories, about how he left the Navy and then moved to work for the GDI. As the groups sat enthralled, a slave from one of the other halls crept into the barrack chamber. The slave walked up and whispered into his ear.
“I have discovered that there are three more Argon prisoners with uniforms, like yours, spread around the work crews.” The slave said.
“Any sign of a new Paranid or Boron?” Gromwell enquired.
“I have heard nothing about a Boron, however it is well known that the Split like to keep them for sport.” The Slave replied. “The Split and Paranid are still allies, so it is likely that they are keeping him confined in better circumstances until they can transport him back to Paranid space.”
“Lucky him!” Gromwell replied. “See if you can let my colleagues know I am safe and well. Don’t take any risks though, I don’t want you getting hurt.”
The slave smiled and nodded and headed silently out of the room. Gromwell turned back to his audience. “Sorry about that, now where was I…”
Before he could continue his story, a klaxon sounded indicating it was time for them to sleep. The slaves found their sleeping pallets and many were promptly dozing before Gromwell was even at his own bed. He was still not used to the sounds of a room filled with sleeping individuals and found it very difficult to fall asleep himself. He therefore spent much time running things through his head.
He wondered how the situation in the outer regions was faring, before he had been captured, tensions seemed to have been cooling. Surprised that his thoughts had wandered to such distant topic, his own incarceration suddenly was thrown full force back at him. It seemed so long since his capture, he felt sure that the GDI must have given up. Perhaps the defence squadrons had taken more losses than he had been able to register.
The dim lights dotted around the room began to flicker. This was nothing new, it was rare for the power supply to be consistent. The flickering intensified and Gromwell’s eyes flashed open, something seemed to be going on. He was sitting himself up when the lights went out entirely. Several of the slaves still awake began to scream and shout with alarm. In space when the light goes out it usually meant no power, which in turn meant no life support. “Wow, don’t panic” Gromwell shouted, as other slaves woke up and began to add their voices to the cacophony.
With a sudden flash, red emergency lighting switched on. In the distance through walls and bulkheads, Gromwell could here the sound of explosions. Realisation dawned in him; it was the sound of explosive charges. The mining station was under attack. “It must be a rescue.” He shouted into the din.
Destiny's Dawn - Chapter 11 (complete)
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