Tales from the Service: A Brother's Sacrifice

2954-11-11 – Tales from the Service: A Brother's Sacrifice 

This feed item should appear some hours after the findings of the Admiralty investigation into the handling of the first battle of Håkøya has been released to the public. While the report does not explicitly find fault with Admiral Zahariev, he nevertheless is expected to resign from Navy service entirely. We here in this embed team were given a few days' advance notice through back channels, in case we needed time to prepare our statements on the matter. 

Admiral Zahariev's command of Fifth Fleet up to the loss of Håkøya has been much maligned in civilian media throughout this conflict, but we hold the opinion that much of this is unfair. Yes, he presided over numerous failures. Yes, he has always been a naturally a careful and risk-averse commander. But he always struck us as a deeply self-critical man, and he attempted at every stage to select of more hot-blooded staff and subordinates. This, too, he was criticized for, often by the same people who considered him over-cautious. The report of the commission confirms and endorses his staff selections, up to (but notably not including) Boszi Kirke-Moore. 

With the liberation of Håkøya, Zahariev's ultimate failure to protect that planet has been reversed. It is likely the relative brevity of the occupation there was considered during the final weeks of the inquiry. 

Admiral Abarca and his staff at Seventh Fleet did not offer a comment on this matter, and I am not aware of any comment from Admiral Venturi. I would guess neither will discuss the matter much for the remainder of their current assignments. 

Sergeant Devon Barker took off his pack and knelt down on the brow of the hill, with the sweet tang of a Håkøya ocean breeze blowing through his longer-than-regulation hair. His hand wandered to the scar interrupting the stubble on his chin, a scar he'd told the med-techs not to erase, but his mind was wandering far into the past, to a time before scar or stubble. 

"This the place?" 

Devon turned to look at his traveling companion. "I think so." Without rising to his feet, he pointed down toward the gray-green breakers on the shore, about three klicks away. "His cottage was down there." 

Out in the open water of Klimenos Bay beyond, a hover-ferry threw up a shock-white wake as it sped across from the big resort complex at Balacay to the tiny town of Janaster's Post. The Klimenos Bay Devon remembered from his childhood had always been dotted with pleasure-craft of every description. Now, only about six weeks removed from final liberation, with most of its inhabitants still yet to return, most of Håkøya's population centers and tourist traps were ghost towns, barely starting the process of resuming the vibrant life yearsof occupation had interrupted. 

"I don't see anything down there." Marcela Brandt shielded her eyes from the wind with her hand. "Certainly no cottages. Just some dunes and a marsh behind them." 

"Five storm seasons without maintenance." Devon shrugged. "Dig around in those dunes and you'll probably find what's left of the houses. Not that there'll be too much left worth the trouble. Everyone who lived here packed up and got out before the trap closed, including Maya." 

They'd talked to Maya back on Maribel before shipping off with a rear-echelon detachment bound for Håkøya, but she'd had little to offer in the way of assistance or encouragement. She and Devon's brother Herman had split nearly ten years ago, before the War, and somehow, she'd ended up in possession of the Barker family vacation cottage, Herman's since the death of their father. The brothers had rambled through those hills behind the coast – a rare landscape of rolling, open, grassy meadows on a world mainly dominated by forests and mangrove-like salt marshes - on uncountable days as teenagers. 

"This does seem like... his sort of place." Marcela turned a circle, looking in all directions, gaze lingered on the direction where their aircar lay. She'd served with Herman in the F.V.D.A., and had been there on Mereena the day he'd bought his plot.  

Maybe she'd been more than a comrade to Herman. Devon hadn't asked, and didn't want to know. She had spoken to him enough to have heard of his desire to come back to these hills on more than one occasion. And when his remains had been returned to the closest living family he had – Devon – she had reached out to offer her help in seeing that he made it back after all. That was enough for Devon. And he hoped that it was enough for Herman. 

"His, and mine." Devon stood up and gestured down the hill toward the shore. "Everywhere you go on Håkøya, there's a blazing-white beach, or a tranquil forest. But up here was our alien landscape to explore." That idyllic adolescence was nearly twenty years gone. Twenty years of loss, of heartbreak, of missed opportunities, in which they'd lost first their mother, then their father, while still barely adults themselves. In which they'd both found love, and failed to keep it. In which they'd both become soldiers, and left their blood on the soil of other worlds on the Coreward Frontier. 

Devon opened his pack and removed the spherical metal capsule he'd been carrying. Tiny letters stamped around its equator spelled out Herman's full name, birth date, and the date of his death on Mereena. Though the container was incredibly rugged, he set it down carefully on the hilltop next to his feet. "We made it back, Herman." He struggled to keep his voice from breaking. "We should never have left." 

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Tales from the Service: The Prisoners' Conspiracy

2954-11-04 – Tales from the Service: The Prisoners' Conspiracy 

When the outside investigator arrived, flanked by a pair of functionaries and closely shadowed by a group of armed guards, Sorab Bokori hesitated to descend from his guard post. He wanted Trachtenberg to have a look around before he tried to inject his own theory into the proceedings. After all, the facts were on his side; anyone who saw them should see that, too. 

Still, the very idea of what he suspected seemed ridiculous. If he was wrong, he'd never hear the end of it from the other guards. He ran over it all in his mind one more time, just to persuade himself, as the investigator paced the inside of the wire below. 

When Trachtenberg entered the bottom level of the guard tower, Sorab took a deep breath, nodded to his shift partner, and headed down to greet him. With multiple extra guards in the vicinity, he would not be reprimanded for going down to the investigators, especially if he had something to contribute. 

Trachtenberg, his functionaries hurriedly scribbling something on their slate computers behind him, was just working the door controls to head out beyond the wire when Sorab arrived. After acknowledging Sorab's hasty salute, Trachtenberg waved him forward. "You weren't here last night, were you, Guardsman?" 

"No, Captain." Sorab shook his head. "But my partner and I have been here since dawn. I was the one who fixed the wire breach." 

"Have you anything to report?" 

"I think so, sir. But if it's all right, I would prefer if you looked around before I said my piece." 

The older officer frowned, then nodded. With one last jab at the controls, he opened the outer door and disappeared out, his two subordinates hurrying after. 

Sorab leaned on the tower's central pillar and waited. If Trachtenberg was as good as McCallum's endorsement, he would probably see most of what Sorab had. 

The investigator was back within five minutes. After herding his associates into the guard tower and sealing the door, Trachtenberg turned to Sorab. "I'm guessing you have some thoughts about the escapee's co-conspirator." 

Sorab nodded. "I do." He pointed up at the armor-glassed watch-post at the top of the tower. "I don't think it was anyone up there. But I'm sure you've talked to them." 

Trachtenberg nodded, his face unreadable. 

"The escapee's course across the open space is quite curious." Sorab began cautiously. "But I'm sure you noticed that." 

"Yes. It suggests knowledge that this tower was not a threat." 

Sorab nodded. "I thought so, too. But I realized that was assuming too much. Rather, it indicates that if the escapee was going to be seen, she wished to be seen from this tower in particular, and only this tower." 

"Go on." Trachtenberg still remained impassive. 

"Only this tower." Sorab repeated. "Meaning, there was a desire not to have eyes in any of the other towers turned this way." He pointed to the door behind the other man. "There's some dirty handprints on the outside wall of the tower, so it's not too difficult to guess why. The escapee was getting out while someone else was getting in." 

Still, the investigator did not react. 

"Headcount says nobody is missing, and the sensor net isn't detecting anyone in the camp who shouldn't be. So the person sneaking in, was sneaking back in." Sorab gestured behind himself, toward the barracks buildings in the center of the camp. "And '43 – our escapee – thought that was more important to protect than her own escape." 

Sorab expected Captain Trachtenberg to say something, but the other merely made a motion for him to go on.  

Taking a deep breath, he continued. "I think the escape was a distraction. '43 is taking the hit for her conspirators. It was probably a snap decision when something went wrong. Probably the tripped wire sensors. She expects to be caught – but as long as we're looking for her, we're not looking for the right thing." 

"Let me see if I understand." Trachtenberg held up one finger. "You think there is a group of prisoners here who have learned how to get out of the camp and back in for their own purposes. And you think they are willing to endure the punishment for an attempted escape to cover for it?" 

Sorab nodded. "It's got to be a group from the recent inflow, Captain. Prisoners who came in with '43 herself." He winced; of course that's what it was. Her obvious skulking and sizing up of the camp security had been a diversion for more careful efforts by her conspirators. How had he fallen for it so easily? 

Trachtenberg nodded. "What purpose do they have for their coming and going?" 

Sorab held up his hands. "I don't think the answer to that is visible from my guard post." He sighed. "I can't think of anything they could be doing out in the woods, except hiking around in the vain hope of contacting friendly partisans who aren't there. Maybe you have a better idea." 

"I might." Trachtenberg stepped across the intervening space and put a hand on Sorab's shoulder. "I had my suspicions we were dealing with more than just an escape already. I'd bet money you're mostly right. But don't go and brag any of this to your mates, not yet." 

"Yes, sir." Sorab saluted. "Hope you get them, sir." 

"We'll see." Trachtenberg nodded, then gestured to his subordinates, and they followed him back into the camp compound. 

As I promised last week, here is the conclusion of Sorab's account about an escape from a middle-of-nowhere prison camp on Håkøya. I apologize for the rather abrupt end; the implication we are meant to take from this is clearly that Sorab was correct about all his guesses, but he did not include any follow up details to prove this. 

What he did provide was a rambling essay about all the things he was considering as reasons prisoners in such a remote camp might want access to the wilderness outside their camp. Most of his guesses are clearly farfetched – he says so himself – he even posits a deal with the Gossamers to establish contact between prisoners in various camps, which is obviously insane.  

The guess he included in his account remains the most believable, so I have elected not to include the rest of this idle speculation. 

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Tales from the Service: An Outside Perspective

2954-10-28 – Tales from the Service: An Outside Perspective 

Sorab Bokori stared at the footprints hard for some time, following their arrow-straight course across the cleared zone back and forth with his eyes. That course only made sense if the escapee knew nobody in the tower above his head was looking her way – at least, nobody hostile – but could not be sure about the other towers along the perimeter. 

Sure, Prisoner 5514043 could have seen the diverted attention of the two guards on duty while she was prying the wires apart, but Sorab found this unlikely. Both of the guards would have had to have been leaning out against the angled armor-glass to be visible from below, discounting the darkness and the inwardly-pointing floodlights positioned deliberately to obscure a prisoner's view of the interior of the guard towers. No, the prisoner would have to have known beforehand before she even approached the wires, otherwise, she would never have done in the first place. 

Obviously the two guards who hadn't noticed the escape until too late were off-duty now, and would be facing a stern internal review outside the notice of the inmates. If there was any foul play suspected, they'd be shipped to the most miserable guard duty that could be found on Håkøya while that was sorted out. As these were his fellows, Sorab didn't want to think either of them could betray their duty for a prisoner, especially one who'd been around less than two weeks and who in that time had ingratiated herself to nobody. If not them, though, then who? 

Sorab glanced up at the tower again. The watchmen, of course, were watched in turn, by an automated surveillance system which would make the investigators' job only too easy if the guards really had conspired to ignore the escape. Everyone knew their activities and discussions in the guard posts were monitored. Obviously, two guards could agree beforehand to both be "unfortunately" looking the wrong way at the wrong time, but doing that convincingly was far from trivial. 

The brawl, obviously, had been prearranged, or at least foreknown, by the escapee. It would have diverted most attention toward the center of the camp, at least for a moment. It hardly mattered whether the brawlers were in on the scheme or not. They wouldn't face much punishment, anyway, unless someone was seriously hurt. The real culprit had to be someone within the camp staff, who could somehow detect when the guards were distracted and signal it out to the escaping prisoner. 

With a sigh of defeat, Sorab turned to go back up to join McCallum. This whole thing had been the most obvious escape in the history of prisoner camps. Was he thinking about this too much? Was it really correct to dismiss the possibility that she just taken a chance on long odds, prepared to accept the consequences of failure, and gotten lucky? 

Just as he was about to swipe his badge on the outward facing door of the guard tower, though, Sorab spotted a grimy smear, like a dirty handprint, on the metal wall next to the door. The guard uniform had integrated gloves, so that couldn't have been left by the previous shift. 

Sorab frowned as he inspected the print, which looked to have been left by a hand pressed against the surface as its owner pressed alongside the wall. Sure enough, there were indistinct prints in the undergrowth at the base of the wall. Upon seeing these, the first fragments of a hypothesis began to form in his head. There was no way a single prisoner could have made them and also the footprints – at least, not during the same brief escape. 

Sorab clicked on his radio. "Hey McCallum, have they finished the headcount? Anyone else missing but our gal '53?" 

The response was immediate. "Yup. All accounted for. Why?" 

"Just thinking." Sorab realized this was not particularly informative, but if he was right, he didn't want to say much out loud. If he was right, their suspicious prisoner had not been planning an escape at all – and this was bigger than he was equipped to handle on his own. "Who do they have investigating the incident?" 

"Let me check." This time, there was a delay while McCallum looked up the name. "Looks like they flew in Captain Trachtenberg from Hayden Ridge to handle it. I've worked with him before, he's good. He's probably holed up with the camp commandant, otherwise he'd be down there with you right now." 

"Thanks." Sorab glanced at the handprint again. Most likely, the investigating officer would be stopping by during their shift. "I'm on my way back up, unless you can see anything else out here you want me to check out." 

"Negative, Bokori. Come on up and finish your coffee before it gets cold." 

Sorab took one last look behind him, then pressed his badge against the armored door and slipped inside. 

What Mr. Bokori claims to have discovered is remarkable, though perhaps not so unexpected to those who have experience with the conditions (especially boredom) in a prisoner of war camp in any conflict. I will however not steal his thunder; the final portion of his account will appear here next week. 

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Tales from the Service: The Inside Job

2954-10-14 – Tales from the Service: The Inside Job 

There have been some questions as to when this account claims to have taken place. From clues in the message it was provided in, it seems these events took place before Håkøya was fully liberated, perhaps midway through the ground campaign, when there remained a remote possibility of Incarnation prisoner breaks. 

McCallum never got his chance, as it transpired. When Prisoner 5514043 made her move, neither he nor Sorab Bokori were on duty. 

They heard about it over coffee in the guardhouse the next morning from the outgoing shift, while the camp brass paced outside the fence trying to appear like they were on top of the situation. Late the previous night, a group of POWs had engaged in a loud brawl in one of the barracks buildings, prompting guards to rush in and break up the melee. 

Whether this was spontaneous or part of an escape conspiracy was yet to be determined, but what was known was that while most eyes in the guard towers were diverted toward the bright lights and commotion, '43 had made a breach in the electrified wire below the north corner guardpost and made a dash for the trees. 

Search parties were dispatched, of course, but these were given strict instructions not to tangle with the prisoner, at least not yet. An escapee who returned to the camp telling stories of the trackless forest would be a beneficial force in the camp, after all.  

As it turned out, Sorab and McCallum pulled duty in the north tower, and so their first assignment of the day was to repair the breach in the wire in their sector. This was a simple matter of pulling out the slotted boards the prisoner had used to lever the lowest wires off the ground and re-tensioning the lattice to make such an escape far more diffucult the next time. A few prisoners watched them work through the loose screen of guards who'd rushed the escape point inside the camp and prevented anyone from following the first escapee. 

As their work was finished, Sorab studied the ground outside the wire. The first five yards or so were a mass of muddy soil, cleared of all but the smallest plants to deny a creeping escapee any cover. A line of prints ran quite clearly from the breach toward the trees. It was all very cut and dry, but there was something about it that bothered him. 

"Problem?" McCallum prodded Sorab with the tensioning spanner. "Come on, let's get topside." 

Five minutes later, they were sitting in the tower, sipping more coffee and watching the harsh blue-white orb of Håkøya's stellar parent creep over the hills to the west, sending long, stark shadows through the prisoner enclosure. The camp commandant's voice was droning over the loudspeakers, probably discussing the probable fate of '43 for those who were still within the wire, but it was unlikely that any of the prisoners were listening any harder than the guards. 

Sorab's mind was on the escape itself. Since the guard towers' bulletproof glass walls were slanted outwards, he could lean out of his chair a little bit and see down to that trail of footprints. He saw now what had been bothering him when he saw them on the ground – the escapee hadn't cut the quickest route out from the wire to the trees. Instead, she'd gone slantwise across the five meter cleared zone, nearly doubling her time in the open. That made no sense. When every millisecond was crucial, why waste multiple seconds like that? 

McCallum saw Sorab's attention wandering to matters outside the camp. "The runner's not our problem, Bokori." He chuckled. "Damned good for her she's not, too." 

"There's something weird about the whole thing." Sorab frowned. "Seems too cut and dry for me." 

"That one's been looking for a way out since she got here. You've been watching her like a hawk for a week and a half." McCallum threw up his hands. "Now everyone can see you were right, and you won't accept it?" 

"I was right. But what about the motion alarms? Should have tripped the moment she started mucking with the wire, and she couldn't have known about them. We haven't had a perimeter alarm since that group came in." The alarms, tied to the electrified wires, were so sensitive that sometimes even a strong wind would set them off. 

"How do you know she didn't overhear something? Anyway, with that brawl, she had time to work those boards in slow enough not to set anything off." 

"Maybe." Sorab's frown deepened. "Why run slantwise across the open ground, though?" He gestured down at the prints below. "The outer sensors would have tripped by that point, and that gives whoever's up here plenty of time to see them." 

McCallum leaned over Sorab to look at the line of prints. "Yeah, that looks pretty dumb. But she got out clean, right?" 

Sorab said nothing, waiting for the gears to turn in his compatriot's head. 

"Right?" McCallum said again, less convincingly. 

"Whoever was up here wasn't as keen on taking the shot as you." Sorab stood up. "Think you can hold things here for a few minutes? I want to go down there and have a look around." 

McCallum grunted. "You know that's not our job." 

"Probably not. I was right once. Let's hope I'm not two for two."

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