Danny smirked. “Don’t get excited; it’s a short-term thing. I’m coming back long enough for them to examine my armor, then I’m going after Masterson. That was the deal.”
Briggs whistled. “Impressive stuff, that armor of yours. You didn’t move like that on the Axius.”
“Yeah, well, a lot’s changed since then.” Danny showed Briggs toward the exit. “Come on, I’ll tell you about it over some bad coffee in the galley.”
Briggs halted outside of the cockpit. “I appreciate that, Tucker, but the admiral was pretty clear that I’m not to leave the Mattingly. That was the primary condition of my release to Lee.”
“Oh, what the hell ever.” Danny waved him off. “My ship, my rules. If your parole officer has a beef with it, he can take it up with me.”
“Now, there’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask,” Briggs said. “How does an ASC staff sergeant on death’s doorstep disappear into the black only to turn up ten months later having financed an entire ship and crew on his own?”
“I won the lottery.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
Danny exhaled to the ceiling. “So, as it happens, rich-guy collectors of Beyonder antiquities pay through the nose for Kurgorian tech. And that pod I left the Axius in? A whole lot of tech.”
Understanding crept across Briggs’ face. “And what of Overlook and her…modifications?”
Danny grinned. “The corvette we salvaged from an orbital boneyard in the Rentarah system. She’d been adrift there for decades, ever since the empire’s invasion of that area under Clayton Zier. Her makeover came once we got her back to Detron City. A few bribes, a new transponder code, and a boatload of TLC later, she was back on her feet with a new lease on life…just like her crew. Now, are we done here?”
Briggs tilted his head. “I suppose we are.”
“Good.” Danny gave him another shove. “You may not want coffee, but I do, and unless hell’s frozen over, and I somehow missed the memo, Mac’s already killed half the pot by now.”
* * * * *
Chapter 9: Fractured
Alystierian High Chancellor Alec Masterson snorted at the report in his hands then tossed his data tablet onto the desk before him. In the seat on the other side sat Max Larson, the editor in chief of Alystier’s public news service, the Eurial Sun.
“How do you want me to spin this?” asked Larson, a pale, slender man in his late forties with a thin nose and receding hairline.
Masterson rubbed his temples. “Has word of this broken onto the public info-net yet?”
Larson gave a hesitant nod. “Sadly, sir, yes, though it’s mostly hearsay at this point. Unlike the other attacks, which tended to be more public, this one was fairly isolated. That made it a lot easier to contain.”
“Images?”
“Only those taken by my people, Sire, and we can scrub those from the report if need be.”
Masterson clasped his hands in his lap. “That won’t be necessary. Let’s use them to get out in front of this one. Release the story, branding this as yet another senseless attack on imperial interests. You said two guards were killed?”
“Yes, but everyone else from the convoy was spared.”
Masterson raised a palm. “Omit that from the story, and pair the headline with an image of the blood spatter in the snow. This was a vicious attack on the empire by a cowardly fugitive and an enemy of the state—nothing more.”
Larson crossed his legs. “With respect, Sire, that may be tough to sell if those supplies turn up in impoverished hands. He has been known to do that, you know.”
“Then we’ll deal with it at that time,” Masterson snapped. “That is what the government pays you for, Larson, is it not?”
Larson shifted in his chair. “Indeed it is, Sire. Although, speaking solely as your ally in such matters, you’re going to have to address this at some point. Ever since word of this Rogue’s exploits became public, people have been clamoring to know why he wars with the empire. Hero or villain, they want to know who he is.”
Masterson’s gaze drifted back to the tablet screen, which flickered dimly over the report’s final image. It showed the convoy’s lead escort lying ruined in the snow with a message scrawled on its side…the message. Masterson sneered at it just as he had every other time he’d seen it in the last six months—just as he had the first time he’d seen it, ten months ago, on the Axius’ video feed. The message was simple, only five words: “I know where you live.”
Anytime you’re ready, Sergeant Tucker. Masterson stroked his silver whiskers. Anytime.
“Sire?” Larson asked.
“The Rogue is no one.” Masterson returned to the moment. “And his grievance with us doesn’t matter. Just do your job, Larson, and people will forget him soon enough.”
“Very good, Sire,” Larson said. “Will there be anything else?”
Masterson reclined in his office chair. “How are the viewership numbers on the Kurgorian history series?”
“Ah, quite well, Sire.” Larson raised his pen. “Thus far, we’ve run parts one through three of the eight-part series with part four set to air tonight. I must say, you were right about them. The Kurgorians are a magnificent people with a rich heritage. The Alystierian people apparently think so, too, as we’ve already received funding for a follow-up series.”
“That’s excellent.” Masterson had enjoyed penning that series. Even so, compelling fiction was only half the battle where effective propaganda was concerned. One also needed proof; hence, the video he’d requested from the Kurgorians and the panel of peer-reviewed experts he’d bribed to substantiate it all. “I hear there’s even been talk of erecting a Kurgorian war monument in the Eurial Square to honor their fallen alongside ours when the conflict with Aura is over.”
“I’ve heard that, as well. Yes.”
“And what of our parliamentary corruption series?”
“Even better, Sire.” Larson’s grin widened. “Our investigative reports on ministers Kean, Felling, and Pollance drew by far our largest readership of the year, and the forthcoming report on Minister Doering is expected to top even those.”
Masterson swiveled his chair toward the window so as to hide his satisfaction. He’d spent years amassing secrets on parliament’s most prominent ministers, at first to pit them as his allies against the previous administration but all the while knowing that one day he’d use those same secrets to burn them as enemies. Fast-forward to the present, and parliament’s approval ratings were sewage while his were in the clouds. “Where do we stand on the Roan Tully exposé?”
Larson’s grin faltered. “Minister Tully appears to be…a slightly different story.”
Not what Masterson wanted to hear. “How so?”
“Honestly, Sire, I’m not certain there’s anything to know about the man. Otherwise, we’d have found it by now. Tully wakes in the morning, reports to his office in parliament, then goes home to his wife of forty-two years and stays there until morning. To hear the others tell of it, he’s actually quite boring.”
Masterson waggled a finger. “No one is spotless, Larson, not even a respected moderate like Roan Tully. Keep your people on him.”
“Consider it done, sir. Will there be anything else?”
The intercom on Masterson’s desktop chimed. “No, Mr. Larson. That will be all.”
“Very good, Sire.” Larson rose to his feet, gave his customary bow, and vanished out of the door.
Once he’d gone, Masterson checked his display for the hailer’s identification code. It was Ovies on the Kamuir, which was in orbit. “What is it, Commander?”
“Excuse the interruption, sir, but Pralah Kai-Ool of the Vanxus wishes an audience with you.”
There was a hint of drabness in Ovies’ voice, not that this was anything new. Apparently the XO was still sour at having been passed over for command of the Kamuir when Masterson had been made chancellor. That post, instead, had gone to Lars Reirdon of the warship Lancetor. My apo
logies, Kynrick, but I needed a warrior to lead my newly hybridized flagship, not a scientist. “What does the pralah require?”
“He wasn’t terribly specific, sir,” Ovies said. “He just said it’s regarding the refit.”
Masterson’s gray eyes narrowed. You’d better damn well be calling with good news, Kai-Ool. “Put him through.”
“Sending him to you now, sir.”
Seconds later, the mat-sized panel next to Masterson’s desk spiraled open, releasing a cylindrical spray of light into the air. It swirled about for a moment, fluctuating in shape, then redirected back to the mat, where it converged into a lone, solid figure.
Tall, thin, and clothed from head to toe in formal black officer’s dress, the red-scaled Kurgorian commander wore the same blank, unreadable expression he always did.
Smug bastard. Masterson adopted his best faux smile. “Pralah Kai-Ool. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“Chancellor Masterson,” the alien began, hissing through his razor teeth. “I call upon you with word of the refit.”
“A good word, I do hope.” Masterson leaned back. “Your engineers have been working for what—a month now?—trying to adapt your technology for our carriers. We didn’t have this problem with our cruiser or destroyer classes.”
Kai-Ool’s deep golden eyes flicked to slits then back open again. “Your carrier ships are among your fleet’s oldest technology—a fact, I’m afraid, that’s causing quite a problem for our modernization efforts.”
“Indeed.” Masterson’s thoughts flashed to the myriad worlds that would remain out of reach so long as his fleet lacked the ability to mass deploy. “What of our Phantoms, then? If we can get their C-100 systems up and online, then we won’t need the carriers—for short-range missions anyhow.”
“We are finding more success with your fighters, yes,” Kai-Ool said. “We’ve perfected a prototype, but it has yet to be tested. According to my senior lead on the project, that’s scheduled for later this week. If all goes well, we should have your first squadron of C-100 Phantoms ready for deployment by the middle of next month.”
Masterson’s fingers dug into the arm of his chair. That’s three weeks past your original projection. “Is there no way to expedite the process?”
“I am afraid not.”
“Then perhaps you’ll reconsider your warbird stance,” Masterson pressed. “As I’m sure you’re aware, I have plans in the works that would benefit greatly from the firepower your ships could provide.”
The edges of Kai-Ool’s mouth twitched, but the smile never came.
Arrogant slaring fool.
“Again, Chancellor, as has been made clear on multiple instances, our arrangement with you never involved our ships going on the offensive for yours. We are here to render support and technology, nothing more. Those were the terms of our deal.”
Struck with rage, Masterson regained his calm, as he always did, by touching the hilt of the chancellor’s saber at his side. How he loved that weapon. Elegantly forged from pure-grade Detron steel and boasting the finest craftsmanship of eight generations, it was utterly devoid of blemish…just as the empire would be once he’d reformed her in his image.
Alas, current circumstances required Masterson to play the subservient ally, and he did so with a bow. “My apologies, Pralah Kai-Ool. I didn’t mean to belabor the point. It’s just that, as leader of my people, I exist solely to keep them safe. As a leader yourself, I’m sure you understand.”
Another nonsmile. “Your plight is understood, Chancellor. Nevertheless, the High Council’s mandate for Kurgorian neutrality stands.”
“Understood,” Masterson said. “So, back to our fighters. How can my people be of assistance?”
* * * * *
Chapter 10: A Ghost’s Return
Having concluded his vid-com briefing with the ASC brass, Lee rounded a dim metal corridor on Crew Deck and crossed the threshold into Overlook’s galley. There, seated in folding chairs around an aging dinner table, were Mac, Link, and Hamish, each nursing a mug of coffee.
“What’s the word, babe?” Mac slid out a chair for her husband.
“Everything’s set,” Lee said on his way through the door. “Reegan says we just passed into friendly space, which means we’re lookin’ at about an hour to Aura. We’ll dock with the Praetorian when we arrive.”
Mac craned her neck toward the empty hallway behind him. “Where’s Danny? I thought you guys were together.”
Lee paused at the coffee stand on the far wall and grabbed a mug off the shelf. “He said he had some stuff to go over with Briggs. Said he’d meet us downstairs on Cargo Deck when we drop out of hyperspace.”
“How’d the admiral take it when you told him we found Danny and his people?” Link flicked at his sixth sugar packet. “Bet that made for an interesting conversation.”
“You might say that.” Lee took a seat. “Where things really got interestin’, though, was when the histories came back on Danny’s crew.”
Link and Hamish traded looks.
“And?” Mac asked.
Lee scratched his whiskers. “Turns out there’s a bit more to these guys than Danny let on.”
They all waited for him to explain.
“For starters, the big one? Shotz? He ain’t exactly your run-of-the-mill merc. As it happens, he’s an escaped convict.”
“What?” Mac almost dropped her mug.
“Oh, it gets better,” Lee said. “Prior to his incarceration six years ago, Wade Shotzel was a rising lieutenant in the Alystierian Imperial Guard. Served on the Kamuir and everything, right up to the point where he was dishonorably discharged for deckin’ his CO in a bar fight.”
“Ouch.” Link rubbed his jaw. “That’ll get your clink card punched all right. What’d they give him—twelve, eighteen months?”
Lee thinned his lips. “Fifteen years.”
“Dear word!” Hamish exclaimed. “For a spat in a pub? CO or nay, that’s harsh even by gray standards. What were his priors?”
“That’s just it,” Lee said. “He didn’t have any, not that it mattered in the end. Shotz did five years and change of his initial sentence then went Shawshank from an Alystierian stockade about eight months ago. Ain’t been heard from since.”
Mac smirked and stared at the table. “I don’t like it. Priors or not, General Ginger did something to piss off the brass. Otherwise, they’d have never thrown the book at him like that. Just because we don’t know what that is doesn’t make him any less of a loose cannon.”
“Agreed,” Lee said. “On the matter of priors, though, I’ll tell ya who does have ’em, and I mean in spades…the kid.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Link almost gagged on his coffee. “Chicken Boy’s a criminal mastermind? What the hell did he do—whip out his porpoise in a crowd and started shaking it at people?”
“Ass,” Mac grumbled.
“He’s wanted for theft, actually,” Lee said, “and a lot of it. Apparently, he’s been busted on several occasions boostin’ high-end parts from the local shipyards around Detron City. There’re no less than six active warrants out for him right now.”
Hamish cocked his head. “Every engineer needs a hobby, I suppose.”
“Whatever.” Link slumped down in his chair. “Kid’s still a freak.”
“Big, giant, insensitive ass,” Mac reiterated. “What about the old man? He got a story?”
Lee thumbed the handle of his mug. “Nothin’ in the way of a criminal history, no. I did get the weird impression that Katahl knew him, though.”
Mac’s look turned quizzical. “How’s that?”
“I don’t know.” Lee shook his head. “Just somethin’ about the admiral’s demeanor told me he recognized Doc’s name.”
* * *
An hour later, the low whir of decelerating engines hummed in the foreground as the scene beyond the far-wall portholes shifted from hyperspace to stars.
“Okeydokey.” Lee heaved a sigh and rose f
rom his chair. “Let’s go see the boss.”
The group exited the galley and descended the stairwell outside to Cargo Deck, where they came out onto a steel-grated catwalk Overlooking the main loading bay. Danny and the others were already waiting, none of them looking terribly enthused to be there. Now that he knew their histories, Lee understood why.
“Great day for a homecoming, huh?” Danny dropped his foot from the wall he’d been leaning on and walked over.
“Reckon so,” Lee said on his way down the steps.
“I still don’t like this.” Shotz pulled his sidearm and tossed it into a nearby tool bin. “Not one damn bit, I don’t.”
“Nobody boards the ASC flagship armed, Shotz. That shouldn’t be a surprise.” Danny pointed to the big man’s left ankle. “The backup, too, if you please.”
Shotz muttered another curse then pulled the palm-sized pistol from his sock and tossed it into the bin with the other.
“Thank you.” Danny closed the lid and rolled the bin to the wall. “Doc, you good to go?”
The old man offered a grudging nod while Remy held his usual crouching spot behind Doc’s back. Both of them were extremely fidgety.
The thrusters went silent when Reegan’s voice filled the bay speakers. “Docking sequence complete. We’re clear, people.”
“Let’s get this show on the road.” Danny entered his code into the hatch’s access panel then stepped aside as the light above it flashed from red to green.
Lee and Mac waited while the hatch swung open then looked to Danny to lead them out.
“Oh, no, no, friends.” Danny didn’t budge. “I’m gonna let the hosts take point on this one.”
Mac rolled her eyes.
Stepping out into the familiar confines of a Praetorian docking bay, Lee sucked in a breath and looked around as his boots clanked down against the deck plates. This is gonna be awkward.
“Welcome back, Captain Summerston.”
At Circle's End Page 9