Dark Running (Fourth Fleet Irregulars Book 4) Read online

  Dark Running

  S J MacDonald

  Copyright © 2015 S J MacDonald

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1516852598

  ISBN-10: 1516852591

  DEDICATION

  For Wayne, Anthony & Sam – real heroes and adventurers.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Donna Casey of DigitalDonna.com for the cover design.

  .

  One

  ‘Ah, Mr Taerling.’ His Excellency League Ambassador Jeynkins did not get up to greet Jermane Taerling, but he did gesture him towards a seat with an inviting, ‘Please.’

  ‘Thank you, Excellency.’ Jermane was somewhat flustered. He had been working aboard the Embassy III now for seven months. During that time he had met the Ambassador twice, once at a reception where he was introduced and once when he got out of a lift so that the Ambassador could use it. On neither occasion had the Ambassador spoken more than a few words to him.

  Why would he? The Embassy Three was a huge ship – actually a modified Fleet carrier, with more than a thousand Fleet and Diplomatic Corps personnel aboard. Jermane Taerling was just a face in the crowd – a civil service type in a modest business suit and conservative shirt, his physique slightly plump, his face amiable and his manner chatty. He spent his days at a desk, dealing with stacks of files, and he was paid on civil service pay scales. But his office was on a starship right out on the edge of human space, providing backroom support as they developed first contact with Gide.

  His Excellency League Ambassador Jeynkins was responsible for leading that contact, so he had no time to get to know minor office functionaries.

  Jermane sat down carefully. Diplomatic Corps protocols were if anything even more rigid than the Fleet’s, and Jermane had been working for them for more than thirty years. He sat bolt upright on the edge of the indicated chair, signalling alert, respectful attention.

  ‘I have, Mr Taerling, an extraordinary request to put before you,’ the Ambassador said, in his stately manner, every word considered and each sentence concluded with a judicious pause. ‘I believe I can say that it is extraordinary, without being guilty of hyperbole.’

  A little smile, with that, indicated that this was an ambassadorial joke, and Jermane gave an automatic if rather nervous little smile in return.

  ‘We have just received the latest courier from Chartsey,’ the Ambassador explained. ‘And they bring with them a request from the very highest level – issued from the Presidential office, in fact.’ An even longer pause, while he gazed at Jermane and could see no spark of enlightenment, there. ‘It mentions – specifies – you by name, Mr Taerling.’ He saw honest amazement, at that, Jermane just astounded to think that anyone at that level could know his name at all, let alone be writing to the Ambassador about him.

  ‘I am requested,’ said the Ambassador, at a pace that even other humans could find maddeningly slow, ‘to ascertain whether you would be willing to transfer to another field of operations.’ He saw Jermane’s jaw drop slightly, and inclined his head in magisterial agreement. ‘Unusual, to be sure. Indeed, I believe we must say, extraordinary. And all the more extraordinary because I am unable to disclose to you either the location or the nature of the post you are being asked to undertake. I have not, indeed, been informed of that myself. The appointment carries the highest possible level of classification.’ He looked at Jermane, who now had round eyes and a round open mouth. ‘You know nothing about this, yourself?’

  ‘No, Excellency!’ Jermane struggled for a moment, but managed to pull himself together sufficiently to speak. ‘Pardon me, but are you sure they mean me? There isn’t another Taerling I might have been confused with? I’m Jermane Taerling, you know, Linguistics Department.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Taerling, I know, and no, there has been no mistake. The request is very clear. I am to put the situation to you and ask if you are willing to undertake it. If you are not, then I am to ascertain whether any other member of the Linguistics Department would be prepared to undertake it. Failing that, I am to send, merely, the files that have also been requested – all the Gide Disclosure.

  ‘If you do agree to undertake this, then you would have to be prepared to leave immediately – I mean, within the hour. The courier which brought the message is on standby to carry the files to a destination they do not yet know, themselves. The degree of secrecy involved in this, and the unprecedented level of urgency, make it apparent that this is a very serious matter, Mr Taerling. I can not even begin to speculate as to the nature of the situation you might be going into. I have to advise you that the request carries with it an advisory that the duties you are being requested for carry with them a degree of personal risk beyond that normally expected of Diplomatic Corps personnel. It is, truly, extraordinary, almost melodramatic… frankly, I would have suspected some kind of prank, were it not for the fact that the Presidential authorisation is indisputably genuine. But there it is. I can only tell you that you are being asked to depart at once, to be taken who knows where, on a top secret, high risk assignment.’

  His tone made it apparent that he considered that this kind of thing belonged properly in movies, not the formal grandeur of his office. ‘You would be well within your rights, and well advised, I’m sure, to decline such a request.’

  Jermane managed, just in time, to stop himself bursting out with, ‘Are you kidding?’ though the look of dawning excitement on his face made it quite clear how he felt.

  ‘No, no, Excellency, if you’re serious, I mean, there’s no mistake, they really do want me?’

  The Ambassador, with a patient look, showed him the Presidential letter. It was exactly as he had said, with no more information than he had given. Jermane was still at a loss, but it was clear that this invitation was for real.

  He didn’t hesitate then.

  ‘Of course I’ll go, Excellency, yes,’ he said.

  He was on his way in less than an hour, barely time to pack, no time to clear his desk, just time to talk briefly with his office supervisor and a few friends. The Ambassador had told him to say that he was going home, ‘for family reasons’. It felt weird to tell people that, and to have to deal with their immediate concern, assuming that someone close to him must either have died, or be very seriously ill.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ he said, embarrassed, but that awkwardness was taken for manfully-concealed distress. Even his supervisor, a man who had never seemed to like him very much, gave him a quick hug and told him that their thoughts were with him.

  Jermane was still so flustered when he went aboard the courier that it was a little while before he realised just how horrible it was. Couriers were notoriously noisy and uncomfortable, of course, and Jermane had heard people who’d travelled on them complain of how awful the experience had been. He’d never really given that much credence, though – people were so fussy, he thought, having seen people complaining about the food and facilities even in first class on a luxury liner. He thought that being on the courier would be exciting, and he wouldn’t mind that it was cramped and basic, that was all part of the adventure.

  What he had not understood, though, was just how cramped it actually was. The area he’d taken for an airlock entry lobby turned out to be the living quarters, an area less than five metres square which he would be sharing with the three crew. He’d been told that he could only bring one bag with him, and they showed him where he could put that, in a wall-net in the airlock. They were already turning away from the Embassy III while he was doing that. One of the crew showed him how to pull out a flimsy folding stool to sit at the little table, and got him a cup of tea.


  ‘Sorry,’ he said, as he put the mug down in front of their passenger. ‘Best we can do.’

  Jermane took one sip of the tea and then put it down again, managing a polite smile. The ship was vibrating so much that the mug was juddering across the table, and the noise was like nothing Jermane had ever experienced before. It wasn’t so much that it was loud, though it was loud enough to have to raise your voice for conversation. It was the nature of the noise; superlight engine hum thrummed in the air, raising the hairs on his arms and creating a feeling like tiny ants crawling on his skin. Mingling with that was a cacophony of other machine noise. It was like being in the middle of a factory floor, with constant beeps and an occasional whoosh as of liquid rushing through pipes. There was no point having a tour of the ship, either, as he could see it all from where he was sitting. There was a narrow gap between the machine space in front of the living area, just wide enough for one person to get through sideways, and beyond that was the area they called the flight deck. There was no actual deck there, just a seat you had to crouch to climb into, surrounded on all sides by flight consoles.

  It was only as he took this in and realised that that was it, that there was no other deck to the ship, that Jermane began to understand what ‘cramped’ actually meant. And it was only a quarter of an hour later when it began to dawn on him that the noise was not, as he’d thought, because they were accelerating away from the carrier, but was actually going to go on like that all the time.

  At least the crew was friendly, though – the skipper was a rangy Sub-lt with dark and dreamy eyes and a shy grin. He was assisted by a very capable petty officer engineer, stolidly practical, and a good humoured deckhand who introduced himself as Chip. They were courteous but cautious, to begin with, clearly having had some experience of carrying civilian passengers. Finding that he just sat quietly where he was put and didn’t complain, though, they gave him warmer smiles.

  Then the skipper opened his sealed orders, the customary hour away from their departure point. He gave a soundless whistle as he read them, then looked up at Jermane, wondering.

  ‘We’re to go to Sector Four,’ he told him. ‘To an uninhabited system, there. It’s obviously a rendezvous, but they don’t say what ship we’ll be meeting.’

  ‘I don’t know, either,’ Jermane admitted. ‘Sector Four – that’s Sentinel, though, isn’t it?’

  The Sub nodded. X-Base Sentinel was a secret base close to the border with Lundane. It was the nearest inhabited point to the border held against the ever-present threat of Marfikian incursion. The Fleet maintained a task force there. The League Intelligence Agency used it as a base for their reconnaissance ships, too, most of them disguised as freighters.

  ‘Our rendezvous point is nine days from Sentinel,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Ah.’ Jermane looked pleased, though bewildered. ‘I was stationed on Sentinel, once.’ He told them. ‘Long time ago – must be nearly thirty years since I was there. I was there for a couple of years, you know, as a junior. First posting. Strange place. Funny smell, I remember, which I never did quite get used to. And the canteen. LIA on one side, Fleet on the other, and never the twain shall meet. I never knew quite where to sit.’

  The Sub grinned, nodding agreement. ‘Not our favourite port of call,’ he admitted, and seeing that Jermane was so willing to talk, commented ‘They’re obviously very keen to have you back.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why,’ Jermane said, frankly. ‘I’m nobody at all important.’ The Sub chuckled, at that.

  ‘They don’t,’ he pointed out, pitching his voice above the long whoosh that erupted at that point, ‘usually send couriers to carry people who aren’t important.’

  ‘But I’m not, honestly,’ Jermane said, putting his hand on his heart. ‘I’m just a linguist, me. I work in Linguistics. I do linguistic analysis, that’s all, strictly backroom, never in front line contact or anything like that.’

  ‘Well, I guess they’ve got something they want you to analyse, then.’ The Sub said, and smiled. ‘Anyway, we’ll do our bit, get you to the rendezvous. It’s going to be quite a run, I’m afraid – five and a half weeks. But we’ll do our best to make you comfortable.’

  It was not, as Jermane soon realised, possible to be comfortable aboard the courier. There were only two possibilities, either to sit at the little table in the living area, or go to his bunk. When they first showed him his bunk he thought they were having him on, winding up the civilian with this obviously ludicrous thing. He was still waiting for them to crack up laughing and show him to his real bunk when they said goodnight and left him to it.

  It wasn’t a bunk, it was nothing like a bunk, nothing like any bunk Jermane had experienced, anyway. It was only just wide enough to lay on and had no mattress, or even proper bedding. He’d been given a paper-thin sleeping bag and inflatable pillow. There was no privacy screen, no lockers, no environmental controls. And it was in the airlock. They might tell him it was safe, that the airlock was also their survival pod, but it just didn’t feel right, laying there with the knowledge that there was only one hatchway between him and outer space.

  And if he’d hoped it might be quieter in here, it wasn’t. The tank that made the whoosh noise turned out to be right over his bunk, adding an additional tremor every time it gushed off, which it did every few minutes at irregular intervals. His bunk was vibrating continuously anyway. It was like trying to sleep on a vibratory exercise table. And when he went to use the shower he found it coffin-sized. Having a shower or using the lavatory required careful planning and some agility.

  He understood now, too late, why they’d asked him if he was subject to claustrophobia before he went aboard. And he would not have been human if he hadn’t thought rather wistfully of his quarters on the Embassy III, the third time the whoosh-tank woke him up.

  Five and a half weeks, he thought. Five and a half weeks of this, and then probably another week on another ship that would take him to Sentinel. And then what? What could be so urgent, so important, that it merited the President himself sending a courier to race him out to Sentinel? What could there possibly be that he was considered more qualified to translate than any other linguist in the service? There had to be fifty linguists in the exodiplomacy service just as well qualified as he was, Jermane thought, and no reason he could think of to single him out for this or any other assignment. And not even to tell him where he was going, or why… that had to be something big, really really big, but if it was something like another species making first contact, again, why would they be asking for him?

  Finding his brain running round in circles, Jermane wriggled into a marginally less uncomfortable position, trying to prop his pillow so that his teeth weren’t being jarred by the vibration, and counselled himself to patience. He was just going to have to wait.

  * * *

  Five and a half weeks later, he stepped through the airlock to board the freighter Chanticleer. It was a trademaster-class freighter, with a crew of eight. They were considered comfortable ships by spacers, though not particularly roomy.

  To Jermane, though, it seemed enormous. His ears were ringing with the sudden silence, or at least what seemed like silence after the din they’d been subjected to for the last month. The space he stepped into seemed vast, and the deck seemed to be swaying, too.

  ‘Hello.’ A briskly efficient woman was there at the airlock to meet him, giving him an understanding look as she saw his dazed expression and jelly-legged walk. ‘Mr Taerling, is it? I’m Andi Berenard, skipper of the Chanticleer. Welcome aboard.’

  ‘Uh, thank you, thank you very much,’ Jermane managed.

  He had no idea who these people were, or why he was here. His hopes that they would be able to answer his questions, though, were quickly dashed. Having shaken his hand, the first thing Andi asked was, ‘So, have you brought us our orders?’

  She seemed disappointed when he said that he hadn’t, though accepted it philosophically.

  ‘We’ve been here twelve d
ays,’ she informed him, as she led him to the mess deck. ‘We’re waiting for orders on where we’re to drop off our cargo.’

  They were carrying two cargo containers, Jermane discovered, later. He’d been able to have a long hot shower in a cubicle he didn’t have to squirm around in like a trainee escapologist, and a meal that tasted like the finest cuisine after the mushy prepacks served on the courier. Best of all, they’d given him a really good, fresh, fragrant cup of tea. Jermane was feeling better.

  ‘What kind of cargo?’ he asked, hopefully.

  ‘We have no idea,’ Andi Berenard grinned at that, as several of the crew laughed. ‘That’s not the kind of question you ask in our line of work,’ she explained. ‘We’re a civilian ship, but we handle classified deliveries for the Fleet, no questions asked. We won’t even ask you what it might be that you’re involved in.’

  ‘Just as well, since I don’t have a clue, myself,’ Jermane said frankly. ‘But you can’t tell me anything? Not where the cargo came from, or who it might be for, or how long it will be till we get there?’

  ‘None of the above,’ Andi Berenard confirmed. ‘We picked up the cargo at a cold drop around six weeks back, with orders to wait here till we’re told where to deliver it. All we know is that one of the containers has 11.64 tonnes of stuff in it, the other 3.62. So now you know as much as we do.’ She surveyed him thoughtfully. ‘And now, of course, there’s you. I daresay we’ll be dropping you, too.’

  Jermane, the linguist, noted the significance of her using the word ‘dropping’ there, rather than ‘transferring.’

  ‘Dropping?’ he queried.

  ‘Yes.’ She spoke as if that was entirely routine. ‘As you’re evidently intended to be part of the cargo…’ she gave him a friendly grin to show that that was not meant to be offensive, ‘we’ll drop you along with it, to be collected. Don’t worry,’ she said, seeing his look of alarm, ‘we do this all the time – well, quite often, anyway. We’ll leave you at a survival dome with all the supplies you need; you’ll be fine.’