Blue Remembered Hills (ch13)

[igenlode]

This was the chapter where I had to amend the text to match the picture, having got the wrong mental image of Federation uniform!

---

Chapter 13: Rebel Alliance

Gan pounded behind Blake at a heavy jog-trot, neither of them worrying any longer about attracting attention: if Dar’s timetable worked out, the Federation were soon going to have more than enough distraction to deal with, and in any case haste went unnoticed in the general urgency of a dust-storm. He pictured the seething cloud of sand and rocks outside with a sinking feeling.

When the question had come up of how the two of them were to reach this Garnier Complex in the mountains, Blake had volunteered a casual assurance that he’d handled craft like the city’s little flyers before. But however much practice he’d had at flitting around within Dome confines back on Earth — and it couldn’t have been that much — nothing could possibly have equipped him to cope with the conditions out there now. Even if the storm was, as Dar’s forecasts promised, moving out over the plains to carry them behind it, even if it did clear before they got back, even if they weren’t going to be fighting, as the other groups were, with fully-armed Federation troops in the open expanses of the dockyard... for a couple of new-born rebels with no experience to speak of between them, it seemed to Gan that they’d been asked to take on a well-nigh impossible task.

‘Dispensible’, Blake had called their role, and Dar had not denied it. Without a ship, their sole value to the Operation was as an unknown quantity — an uncharted phenomenon that might pique the Ghost’s interest, rather than a known navigational hazard.

Dar Ogar wasn’t to blame for that; the man had spent precious time on briefing them, provided precise directions to a refuge he’d spent years protecting from the world, and handed both of them programmed transmitters that held the codes to deactivate what they’d been assured was an impressively lethal array of traps. They’d been given access to a route with which only Dar had ever been trusted — essentially, they’d been sent as his substitutes, disinterested outsiders in a struggle that was none of their affair.

But none of it was going to be any use if they couldn’t even get to this Garnier Entertainment Complex in the first place.

“Blake, about that flyer—” he tried again.

“I’ll manage,” Blake said shortly without looking round. His eyes were fixed on the map-plaque in his hand, where a guiding dot showed their progress towards Airlock East-2 and the underground flyer hangars.

Gan didn’t share his optimism. However automated these surface craft might be, there was no arguing with the ground when you hit it at high speed — or with the side of a mountain.

But for the moment he saved his breath. Back on Earth he’d have laid odds on his ability to outlast any desk-bound Alpha grade; but months of confinement in labs, cells and ships had left him short of wind and more out of condition than he’d realised, and even the long corridors of the Liberator had been nothing compared to distances down on the surface. Blake had slowed almost to a walk now, and they were both gasping, the filter-taste of the air — subtly different from city air at home — harsh at the back of his throat. He caught a glimpse down over Blake’s shoulder at the map, and guessed they must be almost there; the enclosing Dome was lower here, and they’d passed the checkpoint between Zones some way back.

“Dar said there’d be a guard-post,” Blake said between breaths. “That could be it— up ahead—”

And then he was breaking into a gallop, all fatigue forgotten, and Gan was pelting after him, pulling level this time at a dead run as the little struggling knot of men at the guard-post entrance broke off, taken momentarily unawares. Four on one: it had been an uneven fight, and almost over before they’d arrived. Two Federation troopers were trying to subdue the victim; of the remainder of the guard, one had his gun drawn and levelled, still fruitlessly trying to get in a clear shot, and the other was busy preparing to put in the boot in the traditional fashion. Their young prisoner writhed violently in his captors’ grasp, and almost made a break for it on Blake and Gan’s unexpected arrival.

Clearly there was still plenty of fight left in him. Gan threw him a gasped word of encouragement—“Hold on”— and waded in blindly, the great muscles of his shoulders bunching with all the frustrations of the past few hours. Behind him he heard an exchange of fire as Blake cleared his Liberator weapon from its holster; a Federation gun went skittering away across the ground at their feet as Gan’s hand closed like a vice around the wrist that held it, and someone else doubled up with a grunt of pain. Then it was all over, as the last guard went limp in his choke-hold.

He glanced round and found Blake unhurt. The young man they’d just rescued was bent over against a wall, heaving; three of their opponents were out cold and the one shot by Blake was clearly dead. The whole scuffle had lasted less than a minute.

Blake had turned, his gaze scanning quickly up and down the street, and Gan followed suit belatedly. But for the moment at least there was no-one in sight. The ever-present surveillance cameras would tell their story soon enough, but without a Ghost to wipe the network it was a risk they had no choice but to take.

“We need to get these”—Blake stirred a groaning trooper with his foot—“locked up somewhere and out of sight.”

Gan nodded. “Maybe inside the guard-post?”

Instinctively he looked across for confirmation; the young Newpie raised a fair head and nodded. “Should be— a lock-up. Code lock. I’ll—”

He winced, still bent double, and Gan frowned, starting towards him. “If there’s a medical kit—”

He was no doctor, but he’d seen his share of injuries. If it was a rupture, they’d need a stabiliser pad of some kind, and quick.

But the other had flushed scarlet, blood running up under girlish-fair skin in a way that made him look younger than ever despite the faint dawning shade of a moustache: little more than a boy, and slightly-built at that. “I’m all right. Fine— in a minute.”

Stooping to lift a prone body, Gan took him at his word.

The promised cells were easy enough to find: a pair of drab rooms down the first corridor off the main guard-chamber, with an unmistakable trace of stale bodies and vomit lingering from their last occupants. Gan thumbed the lock open on override and dumped his human cargo not ungently on the shelf-bench inside, leaning against the wall for a moment’s rest. He was still trying to trace the elusive memory of that young Newpie face. The fair colouring was nothing distinctive, not on this planet, and those features weren’t nearly good-looking enough to recall the plastic perfection of actors screened in visplay dramas — so why did he have this niggling feeling of recognition?

He heard Blake struggling with his own burden somewhere outside, and straightened up to help. “In here.”

The second unconscious form was dumped beside the first, one arm trailing limply, and Blake wiped a hand across his brow, breathing hard. “We’ll leave the dead man in the other cell... Ask our young friend to help, will you?”

There was a slightly odd note in that, and Gan, about to head back for their remaining prisoner, halted in the doorway in unspoken query. Blake, still catching his breath, didn’t look up.

The third of the guards was beginning to stir. Gan caught the sound of a few blurred words as he reached the main chamber again, and increased his pace.

Swinging the man unceremoniously across one shoulder as he tried to sit up, Gan spared barely a second or two to jerk a nod in the direction of the corpse— “Here, drag that inside if you can”—before plunging back into the depths of the guard-post with a struggling load.

Blake was waiting, and between them they managed to man-handle the dazed guard in beside his comrades before he had entirely realised what was happening. The cell door swung shut with a satisfying clunk as the lock engaged by dead-weight, and the two of them, Gan wiping his face in turn, shared a moment’s sigh of relief.

The young Newpie, still limping slightly, had managed to drag the final body through the outer doorway and in off the street. He looked up from his task as Gan came back into the main chamber, and held out a rather hesitant hand, evidently taking in Gan’s size for the first time. “Thanks... for the rescue, anyway. Are you”—he halted, unaccountably flushing again—“with the resistance?”

Gan drew breath awkwardly, unsure himself of the answer, and heard Blake cut in from behind. The other man’s voice was distinctly grim.

“It’s clear at any rate that you’re not...” He took a pace forward. The lightweight Liberator gun was back in his hand, and levelled midway between the young man frozen across the room and the unspoken example of the weapon’s late victim at his feet.

Even from where Gan stood, one thing was all too clear; the Federation’s planet-and-arrow symbol, visible at last upon the high collar of that tailored uniform as plainly as on the scorched coveralls of the dead trooper. And the face.... The final tugging memory-piece slid in with a belated jolt. He’d seen those ingenuous eyes — that long nose — projected for an audience all right. Only it had been a litany of betrayal, last night, in front of a baying mob.

“Your name is Rall,” Blake said harshly from beside him, out of that same memory. “You hold a lieutenant’s commission in Federation Space Command. And according to those documents there”—his gaze flickered aside a moment, down to the blinking display still showing on a command console that Gan had barely even registered, and a great many things suddenly began to make sense—“according to those documents, there’s currently a city-wide alert out for your arrest. So perhaps you’d care to give us an explanation: a short one....”

Rall had glanced down at the emblem shining at his throat almost as if he too had only just now become aware of it; now blue eyes met Blake’s unwavering dark stare. The hand he’d extended fell slowly back to his side, held wide and open, well clear of the Federation sidearm jammed uselessly there.

“Yes, I’m that Rall.” It was a young voice, but he had it back under control, and the words were as steady as if he had not found himself at gunpoint. “This morning I was a Federation officer—”

Hot colour betrayed him once more, and his eyes fell. “And then I fired on my captain and left the Service to save a girl. I suppose that makes me— a renegade.”

It was the other half of that boy-and-girl betrayal for which Cris had been held up to shame. Avon would have mocked it, urging sharp caution; to Gan’s ears it rang true. And Blake...

“It makes you... potentially very useful,” Blake said gently, restoring his gun to its place in his belt, and Rall came forward, a sudden mark of distress between his brows.

“Listen — I’m grateful to you, I truly am, and I’ll do what I can. But I can’t stay with you. I’ve got to get to Cris.”

Blake’s own heavy brows drew together, arrested, and one hand went to his chin in the familiar gesture that signalled an idea. “Wait... to the mountains? To the Garnier Complex?”

“A big building... the Servin Range...” Rall stared at him. “The Garnier Entertainment Complex — with transmitters across half the planet! Yes, of course — she couldn’t tell me, but yes — if the Ghost lurks anywhere, if he makes his lair deep below the building—”

“You were born here, weren’t you?” Blake broke in unheeding, clearly following a train of thought of his own. “Can you handle one of these flyers in a dust-storm?”

“Of course I can.” Despite his impatience, the young man’s head lifted a little, unconsciously. “How else did you think—”

“Then it’s settled.” And from the depths of the relief in Blake’s face as their eyes met, Gan realised ruefully at last just how little trust Blake had placed in the adequacy of his own proclaimed piloting competence. “It’s settled. We’re travelling together. You’ll take us to Erik.”

“Erik?” It was a sharp exclamation. A moment later there had been nothing in Rall’s face but the faint bemusement of those swept along by Blake’s decisions at full flow; now the young features tightened. and he sprang back, whip-fast. “Wait. You’re not with the resistance — with Cris. So who are you? How do you know all this? And just how do you know that name?”

“From the one man on this planet who can get us into the Ghost’s lair unharmed,” Gan said steadily, laying a placatory hand on the uniform sleeve to detain him. It was shaken off; Rall’s eyes were wide and too bright, hectic with suspicion and the glint of tears, and in a sudden unsought flash of comprehension Gan understood how it must be to be young, and desperate, and all alone against time itself and against an enemy whose power far exceeded his own.

“From Dar Ogar.” Blake had moved with deceptive slowness to place himself between Rall and the street. “You know him, I think?”

He was clearly in no mind to lose their pilot; but the tone was calm and without threat, and the young man hesitated, eyes still darting in search of escape.

“He— Cris... we met there. I’ve seen him — I never—” He broke off. “Dar is involved in this?”

“A lot more involved than you were intended to know — or I can explain. He knows the Ghost better than any of us. And he wants Cris out of there.” Blake laughed, briefly. “Come to think of it, he even mentioned you.”

Let her leave the planet with that boy of hers: the words came back vividly to Gan in his turn, and he had to suppress a smile. No, better not to repeat that, perhaps — not in front of this impressionable, high-strung young Newpie, head over heels for the first time in his life and all nerved up to impossible heroics...

“We’re not in league with Erik, if that’s what you thought,” he said instead, looking down into the young man’s flushed face. “But if you can pilot a flyer — and use your access codes to get us down into the hangars and pick out a craft without raising the alarm — then between us I think Cris has a chance.”

“And you think she’s at the Garnier Complex? You can get us in?” Caught on the brink of uncertainty, Rall looked from Gan to Blake, who nodded.

“We’ll do our best — and the sooner we can get there, the better.” He held out a hand in turn; and this time, finally, fingers met in agreement, and Rall’s grip tightened on the older man’s own.