First Comes Duty (The Hope Island Chronicles Book 2) (25 page)

“This is Lieutenant Croft,” Ning said, “from the Cimmerian Marine Service.”

Nathan snapped to attention as was expected. All Cimmerian military were Bretish-trained.

Croft glanced at his sidearm. “At easy, Ensign.” His features were refined, his accent tainted by eighty years under the colonial control of the Bretish Commonwealth.

“We appear to have a bit of a problem.” The doctor addressed the assembly as a whole, but his intention fell on Nathan. “We need to get to Refugee Camp Twenty-seven, that lies forty kilometers that way.” He pointed toward the distant mountains. “And this is the transport we have been provided with.” His lip curled as he glanced at the ancient ground truck.

“Why don’t we fly there?” Lucky said.

Lieutenant Croft’s brows lowered. “The government has declared a no-fly zone of fifty clicks around the Royal Palace. The refugee camp falls within that zone.”

Nathan shrugged at the doctor, his gesture saying,
so
?

“The lieutenant feels it would be inadvisable for us to attempt to do so,” Ning said.

“Lieutenant?”

“Intelligence reports a significant increase in rebel activity in the region around refugee camp two-seven. I have been instructed by my superiors to inform all outlanders of the dangers inherent with sojourns outside the capital.”

“Rebel activity, Lieutenant?” Nathan asked. “I’ve heard nothing about a rebellion on Cimmeria.”

“The government feels any adverse publicity will strengthen the rebels’ position.” Lieutenant Croft examined his boots. “The government has therefore ordered a news blackout on the subject.”

“Brilliant,” Lucky spat. “So we’ve come all this way for nothing?”

Nathan did not like where this was leading.

“So, Doctor, what do you want?”

“As you’ve pointed out in the past, I am but a humble dispenser of pills and potions. Not a soldier.” He smiled diffidently. “So, I am asking for your military appraisal of this situation.”

“Fucked, by the look of it,” Lucky said. 

Nathan gazed to the distant mountains, then back at the truck.

“What are the rules of engagement, Lieutenant, should we run into any of your rebels?”

Croft cleared his throat. “No rules, Ensign. Enemies of the state are shot on site.”

“Another government edict?”

“Yes.”

Carpov rested her hand on her sidearm. “I think we can handle a few rebels, Doc.”

Ning brightened.

“Weapons are banned on Cimmeria,” Croft said, “except for military and police services. And the King’s Guard, of course.”

“Well, I hate to agree with Whitney about anything, Doctor, but I think he’s summed it up succinctly.”

“There are people in urgent need of the supplies we carry on the landing boat.”

“So, Doctor, you expect us to volunteer to cross forty kilometers of unfamiliar ground, unarmed and under the threat of rebel attack?”

“For God’s sake, Telford, there are lives at risk here.”

"Yes, Doctor, five of them. All standing here.”

“Telford?” the Cimmerian asked. “Your name is Telford?”

The Cimmerian’s startled expression caused Nathan to frown. He nodded.

“Lucas Telford?”

What the hell?

“Lucas Telford was my father. I’m Nathan Telford.”

Croft’s rugged features softened around a contented smile. 

“So, the son of Telford has come to Cimmeria.” Croft grinned, baring his large, startlingly white teeth. “It is a good day, I think.”

“I don’t understand,” Nathan said.

“Telford is revered above all human beings, on Cimmeria. Do you not know of this?”

Nathan shook his head. 

“Strange.” Croft’s expression changed to a more professional, yet appeasing, bearing. “If you wish to try for the camp, I may be of some assistance.”

“I’m listening.”

The record on Lucas Telford’s time here, during the Cimmerian War, had been sealed for decades. Despite Nathan’s best efforts, both by legal and illegal means, he had found nothing relating to his father’s deployment, or his dismissal from the Athenian Naval Service. Although a slight buzz between his shoulders warned of danger ahead, he had an opportunity to find the truth. He could not pass up the opportunity.

***

Nathan wiped sweat from his face as he examined the map provided by Lieutenant Croft. The truck bounced over the potholed road, jostling him around the cab.

“CC, take the next major turn to left,” Nathan said. “It should be a half-click ahead.”

“Right,” Carpov said.

Her knuckles had long since become white with the effort of controlling the lumbering beast. Sweat dotted her face and uniform. Behind Nathan, a flap opened and Lucky stuck his head partly through. 

“Are we there yet?”

“Nope,” Nathan said.

“We’ve been getting bounced around for two hours, Nathan,” Lucky said. “We’ve got to be getting close.”

“Unless we find some decent roadway, it’ll take us at least another two hours.”

“As long as we get there before sundown,” Ning said.

“Why before sundown, Doc?” Lucky asked.

“Because, Ensign, an hour after sundown the temperature drops to minus five degrees Celsius.”

“Shit.”

“Shit indeed, Ensign.”

Nathan had been intermittently checking on Carpov throughout the bone-jarring drive. “CC, if you want to take a break, I can spot you for a while.”

A branch slashed across the view-plate, making her wince. 

“Have you ever driven one of these old jalopies?”

“No.”

“Then thanks, but I’d better remain in the pilot’s seat on this one. They can be quite temperamental.”

To emphasize the point, the truck dropped into a hole, throwing them violently around the cabin.

“Shit, Carpov,” Lucky yelled, “take it easy, will ya?”

One hour and fifty-two minutes later they drove through the open gates and into the compound of Refugee Camp Twenty-seven. Thanks to Croft’s map and sage advice, their journey, although bone-numbingly tiring, had been free from rebel interference.

Just as well,
since we had to leave our weapons back at the spaceport.

As Nathan dismounted from the truck, the stench of neglect struck his nose. Modern sewerage had apparently not made it into the camp. The four humans stood by the truck, massaging sore joints and muscles, while the doc went to find help. A few of the locals passed by, their eyes cast to the ground. Around the camp’s perimeter the jungle threatened to encroach. Nathan’s gaze followed the sheer face of the escarpment, which disappeared into light mist. 

From a large opening in the otherwise solid rock wall, Doctor Ning emerged.

“Corporal Carpov,” he shouted, “would you back the truck into the loading dock?”

“No problems, Doc,” CC said.

“The rest of you, follow me.” 

They passed through the entry and into a huge cavern. The loading dock had seen some use over the years, and showed its age. Within the cavern’s poorly lit interior, signs of construction were evident from the smooth texture of the walls.

“The basic tunnel system,” Ning said, “was formed millions of years ago. Bret engineers expanded on it during the war to use as a staging and supply area. The old tunnels go back into the mountains for many kilometers, but only the reconstructed parts are in use today. There’s mining on the other side of the ridge.”

“Sylvester!” The voice belonged to a woman about Ning’s age, wearing a long, white coat spattered with various unknown stains. 

“Corinne,” Ning said. The two embraced, then the woman pecked him on both cheeks.

“Sorry I wasn’t here to greet you, but it’s been one of those days, again.” She glanced at Ning’s group. “I hope they are willing workers.”

With an echoing rumble, the truck backed into the cavern and stopped before the ferrocrete dock.

“I’m sure if you ask nicely, they may be willing to help out,” Ning said.

She ran her gaze over the group, then back to Ning, and arched an eyebrow. Showing obvious reluctance, he disengaged his arm from her waist.

“Doctor Corinne Doucet,” he said, “this is Chief Petty Officer Ritchie, Ensign Whitney and Ensign Telford.”

Nathan’s back tightened as she shook hands first with Ritchie, then Lucky. He placed his hand over his heart and bowed slightly from the waist.

The Franc doctor’s hand fell to her side.

“Welcome to Refugee Camp Twenty-seven,” she said. “What we lack in amenities, we more than make up for with injuries, disease and malnutrition.”

“I thought you were getting regular supplies from the LHO?” Ning said.

“We have.” Corinne sighed and rubbed her face. “Between visits from the rebels who want our medical supplies, and the government militia who want everything else, there is little left for the people who need it most.” She winked at Ning. “We hide a bit away in the deep caverns. Enough to deal with our most immediate needs.”

CC dropped the tailgate onto the loading dock. “Where do you want it, Doc?” 

The Franc doctor took over, organizing the distribution of the many containers of food and medical supplies. When they moved deeper into the cavern, many more Cimmerians appeared. The very young, the very old and those simply too bone-weary to move on.

The job of unloading the truck and dispersing the supplies continued, Cimmerians in white coats directing the action. The supplies quickly emptied from the truck until only one container remained. Nathan paused to catch his breath. The thin atmosphere made any exertion difficult. He waited until the dizziness passed, then picked up the container and turned to find an elderly Cimmerian woman approaching him.

She examined the container’s label. “Follow me.”

They moved through the caverns, finally arriving at the hospital. A scene of barely controlled chaos, the area was strewn with grubby fold-out cots and patients. Nathan followed the nurse, who turned down a crudely hewn passage and into a separate area. The children’s ward appeared to be even more chaotic than the main hospital area, screaming babies and rushing infants everywhere. Following instructions, he placed the container on a bench.

A harassed nurse with a whining baby on each hip stared at him. “Do you have children, young man?”

“Ah, yes, I have a baby daughter.”

“Good,” she said, handing him one of the infants. “Take care of her, will you?”

Nathan held the squirming baby at full arm’s length. She had to weigh eight kilos. He could not tell her age, but this was not a happy camper. Her little face scrunched in a way universally familiar to any father.

“So, what’s your problem?”

He sniffed her diaper and pulled back. “Holy cow. You’re a toxic little thing, aren’t you?”

After locating the supplies he needed, Nathan placed the baby on a table covered with a clean sheet. “So, little darlin’, what have we got here?” Removing the foul diaper, he grimaced. The infant’s toffee-colored eyes followed his every movement. Nathan had been through the ritual with Ellen, and the principles were identical. He rearranged her white smock and held her in the crook of his arm, cleaned, powdered and re-diapered. The squirming ended, yet she continued to find him fascinating.

“Now that’s better, isn’t it?” he cooed, then tickled her belly. The little face came alive with delight, the small white teeth glistening. She seized his finger, as any baby would. Although any baby wouldn’t apply the amount of pressure she did. “Hey, sweetie, take it easy. That’s my shooting finger.”

For the first time in weeks, he truly missed his family. He should be holding his baby and wife. Pushing such thoughts aside, he brushed a strand of fine, black fur from her forehead.

“I wonder what your name is?” Being fully conversant in baby talk, he kept his tone playful. “Maybe I’ll call you Ellen two. Hey, wadda ya think, hmmm, wadda ya think?” She smiled while wriggling in his arms. He could not help but grin at her antics, and returned to tickling her tummy. “What’s your name then? Aaayye, what’s your name?”

"Emma.” Doctor Doucet dropped a container on a bench and wiped her forehead. “Her parents were killed when their village was shelled during a fight between rebel and government forces.”

“I once knew a very fine pilot called Emma,” he cooed to the baby. In the same light tone he asked the Franc, “Do you have many like her?”

“Sadly, far too many. With any luck, this little one will survive.”

Emma disliked being anything less than the center of attention, and gurgled her disapproval.

Nathan jiggled her on his hip.

“I would have thought, what with the billions of dollars flowing into the Cimmerian economy, there wouldn’t be a need for places like this.” Nathan knew the answer, but wanted to hear it from someone who had lived through the years of legendary corruption.

She snorted and shook her head. “Just what I’d expect from an outlander. There’s more than enough wealth on Cimmeria for everyone to live, ha, dare I say, like human beings? But if there was anything resembling equity on this world, the king wouldn’t have the money to build his magnificent palace or have his many concubines or his new flying toy.”

“Should I take it, Doctor, you’re not a royalist?”

“Within this compound we don’t discuss politics.”

“Of course.” Nathan had heard enough. Although his dislike and distrust of Francs would forever be ingrained into his makeup, his curiosity got the better of him. “Have you been here long, Doctor?”

“Seven years,” she said. “Without the League’s contributions, children like Emma wouldn’t live to see their first birthdays. We do what we can.”

“I see.”

“It’s getting close to sundown, so I’ll take care of Emma now.” She held out her hands. Nathan tried to return the baby, but Emma had other ideas. She latched both of her small, powerful hands to his shirt with diabolical fervor. Emma squirmed and bleated and, despite the doctor’s best efforts, would not let go. Doucet stepped back, a smile playing over her face.

“Now
that’s
unusual,” she said. “Cimmerian children don’t usually bond with humans so quickly. I think you’ve been adopted, Ensign.”

With the struggle ended, Emma happily returned to the crook of his arm and continued to stare at him. Her mouth hung open as he smiled at her.