by S. Walker
She tapped controls that sealed the other end of the airlock from the habitation ring. For a long, difficult moment the red emergency purge button called out to her, tempting Jamet with quick vengeance and swift resolutions. Only a new sense of empathy stopped her from pressing it. Well... empathy and the distasteful vision of a small boy, flailing in cold vacuum.
Jamet tapped the inner seal open instead, watching with hooded eyes as the hatch whooshed out of the way. A now familiar stench wafted outwards, but this time the person making it was almost as bad. Personal console out, she stared slightly upwards at the floating perfection that was an Upper Management Executive.
Then she fired both barrels. "Move it, workers. Strip; everything in the container."
Chapter 28
Field Executions
Every conversation is combat.
There were no formal classes on verbal knife fighting in Management, just like there are no training wheels when it comes to life. Either one has the wit, tenacity and sheer mean-spirited nature required or they don't. Slow learners typically opted out early on for their careers, choosing to work back channel deals or grind out accomplishments to incrementally climb the promotional ladder. But fast burners-- those going to the higher ranks of Management-- got out the daggers early and honed that verbal edge.
Then there were the gifted ones. Hated by rivals, feared by underlings, admired by anyone not in direct competition. Through upbringing or raw social genius they came pre-equipped to cross a verbal battlefield slaying out the competition, untouchable and making it look easy the entire way. Measured against peers they were the lone alphas, the prideful wolves of words, packing not just verbal knives but outright longswords.
Measured on that scale Jamet Reals was a goddamn fencing instructor.
First blood was always important. Almost before the airlock fully opened she was going for a gut wound. "Move it, workers. Strip; everything in the container."
She beat Executive Rachel Targer by a full second, mouth already open to begin a tirade of demands and half-accusations scripted to bully her way on board. Instead of a verbal barrage the Upper choked on every syllable, sputtering. "What did you say to me?!" Kicking sideways, she floated in front of the small group to get a clear angle on where Jamet waited by the hatch. "I will sanction you so hard you'll be scraping-"
They locked eyes. Combat, engaged. Executive wounded.
Knowing your opponent was vital, so out came a rapid social evaluation. Targer's gaze flicked downwards over Jamet, taking in the tailored blue and black Corporate uniform, impeccable shoes and flawless accessories. Uniforms were very much considered to be armor and regulations allowed a lot of subtle leeway when it came to quality. She'd long ago taken it to the limits: The blacks shimmered, the blues so deep they were almost indigo, stitching so tight as to be invisible. Even the gloves tucked neatly through her belt sported subtle monograms. In preparation for this exact encounter Jamet took special pains on her hair-- tight black bun, not a strand floating out of place, braided bangs sweeping backward behind both ears.
She'd left her medal rack off, though. Her upper chest was bare of tiny ribbons and Corporate accomplishment bits. Which could be interpreted as complete inexperience... or grandmaster power so high she was above the game entirely. Dangerous waters to judge, if her opponent decided to take a plunge.
In comparison Executive Targer was an absolute wreck. Blonde hair greasy and matted into a dingy straw color, stuffed hastily behind the neck of her skinsuit. The suit itself wasn't much better: It said a lot to have a customized emergency kit, but over half a year of living in it took all the shine off. It was now a complex grid of sloppy, hastily applied patches and replacement components that didn't match. Accessories missing or discarded. About the only thing left were the gold slashes of rank on sleeves and collar and the surgically-perfect makeup permanently embedded on her face.
It honestly wasn't fair: Seven months of neglect versus hours of preparation. But playing fair was for losers.
Jamet watched her counterpart go through several levels of reactions with almost forensic attention. Either through hubris or sloth Targer didn't have much-- or stopped practicing-- facial control, letting every mental calculus fly right across her permanently accented features. In the space of just a few seconds she treated the entire room to belligerent anger that crash landed into a valley of concern, then whiplashed wildly between deep worry and sneering hostility.
Then she saw the red co-CEO slashes on Jamet's collar. Worry turned instantly into smug condescension as Targer went on the attack. "A lieutenant greeting the hatch? I'd be insulted, but standards must have dropped in the last few months."
Slash. Parry: "Inventory of new personnel assets isn't a priority." Sidestep, lunge: "Independent! We are delighted to have you aboard. Let me expedite your process." Jamet directed a broad smile at the small suited contractor, beaming delight while snapping impatiently for Janson to come over. "Please follow our Security officer, I'll have a VIP quarters assigned to you immediately. Take your time settling in and I sincerely hope we can talk soon."
Targer slapped a glove down on the Independent's shoulder, fingers digging like claws. "Stay right where you are, mister Thompson. There are some employment details to discuss first." She glared death at Janson until he drifted to a halt, then tried for a leg wound on Jamet. "I would hope the lieutenant knows poaching workers under contract is a sanctionable offense."
She took the cut, then moved aggressively into the opening. "Very true. But there are no working facilities in this system, therefore no employment or workers." Which was a twofold strike at both the Executive's authority and her base at the same time. Jamet extended for the combo: "I wonder if Management positions have been terminated yet."
Which hammered hard on a fear that had to be festering in the Upper's soul. Just being out of touch for a vacation could result in coming back to an empty division, all assets reallocated and budgets zeroed out. Seven months, trapped on a derelict station without any communications? It was a guarantee the specter of demotion kept the woman awake and panicking.
Jamet knew the strike was deep when Targer abruptly released the Independent. A quick series of emotions darted across her face, finally settling in conciliatory. She tried a tactical retreat. "Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. I'm sure you understand how exhausted we all are. Some time to recover would be in order; we can continue this discussion afterwards in a more civilized way."
By which she meant time to buy and bribe loyalty from the survivors, arrange accidents for troublemakers and suss out anyone disloyal in Jamet's organization for dirt. All while researching the lieutenant for weak points and going over her head to Management.
Not an ice cube's chance in a dwarf star. "I'm afraid the Kipper doesn't provide free passage. We have crew, workers, paying passengers and recovered assets." She threw that last in the Exec's face with a knowing look, giving her another small cut to manage. "If we cannot sort out your status then you are free to remain aboard the derelict station until construction vessels arrive to disassemble it." Which was a polite way of offering Targer the option to commit suicide while simultaneously slamming the hatch on any attempt at retreat. Then she disengaged, weapon en garde and prepared for any response.
Independent Thompson took that opening to slide quietly away, head down and ghosting along as silently as possible. They both let the man go, for different reasons: Targer didn't want to undermine her own position by clarifying her worker's status, while Jamet was just glad to get a potential casualty out of the duel. Although she did shift slightly sideways, keeping the Exec in sight while watching from the corner of her eye to make sure Janson took the unspoken request. She breathed a mental sigh of relief when the Security suited man gestured Thompson out of the room.
That completed their first engagement. Jamet was destroying the Upper on points, but cornered opponents were often more dangerous. This fight wasn't over.
She circled, lo
oking for an opening. "I really must request you declare your status aboard ship."
Targer eeled around in kind, smiling like a collapsing star. "Perhaps I'm simply a visiting Executive. Are there no guest quarters?"
"Guest quarters, on a Fiscal Recovery vessel? You must be unfamiliar with procedure." Which was a cheap shot, glancing off the other woman's armor without registering.
"Of course I am-- I've never Managed a project that needed the cleaners called in." Point to Targer, although an attack on Jamet's imaginary status at Corporate didn't land with the same weight the Exec thought it did. She tried a follow up cut, hoping for a free hit: "Perhaps you could describe options for Upper Executives, like myself? I could pick the one that suits."
At the mention of 'suits' Jamet dipped her eyes to the Executive's battered ensemble. It was another cheap shot, but a free one. It struck home, bringing a slow flush of angry red to Targer's cheeks. She continued as if nothing happened, drawing the woman out. "That would be crew status, I believe. Are you requesting to join?" Which, as a co-CEO, would put the woman beneath Jamet's supervision and expose her to every dirty sanction, lien, fine, penalty and career report Corporate ever dreamed up. It was a sucker trap that would fall directly on her sword.
Targer didn't step into the bait. She maneuvered for higher ground, instead. "Is your Captain available? I would like to speak with them about temporary co-CEO status."
Which was a very interesting deadlock, hilts crossed and threatening the loser with a severed finger: Jamet couldn't very well refuse a request from an Upper Executive to speak to the Captain, even if the Upper in question was of... questionable status at the moment. That would be a gross overstep of authority, actionable and sanctionable, that Targer could use for a legal complaint. Which, naturally, would freeze everything until Corporate HR weighed in-- and giving the Exec a free ride in the meantime. It was a bold move with no downside from the the tall woman's position: Either she got to speak with the Captain (and worked every bribery trick in the book) or compromised the lieutenant into a misstep.
In any other conversational battle it might have been a come-from-behind deathblow. But Jamet was legendary for wielding a verbal blade.
So instead of answering, Jamet spun slowly to face the third person in the airlock. Small, frail and quiet, with downcast eyes and the posture of a habitual victim. She gave the top of the little boy's head an interested look, pretending to notice Peter Minyer for the first time. "Who is this? Another worker?"
And for the first time since arriving on board, Rachel Targer showed actual terror. Raw, open and panicked; her face twisted hard as every expression fought for supremacy at once. Frantic eyes shot from Jamet to her son, then back to the lieutenant again as she instinctively pushed off the hatch to float in front of the boy. "This is my... dependent." She was fighting on two fronts now, taking wounds on each.
Jamet raised both eyebrows, pitiless. "Crew members cannot have dependents, of course." Stab. Twist.
"This hardly qualifies as a normal situation." She was visibly sweating now, a line of water leaving a clean trail down her neck. Down on both knees, but still fighting.
"Oh, absolutely." Jamet carelessly offered her handheld console. "So you're paying for your dependent's passage, then? You'll need to confirm funds." Blade to tendon, severing motion.
Targer struck desperately, looking to land any blow. "He has a life threatening condition. Leukemia. That qualifies for exceptional patient status." Invisible blood washed the deck.
The console didn't waver, aimed at the Exec's chest like a threat. "Which you can pay for, I assume? A retainer would be necessary. You understand." Flash of red and the sword goes flying, lost forever.
"I- I would need... some time to contact creditors and-" Forget Rachel Targer, Upper Executive. That woman was gone. Some other person stood in her place, eyes bright with panic and the sudden collapse of a privileged worldview.
Jamet dropped a bootheel on her neck, forcing her to the deck. "Events have put us out of GravComm contact for the moment. If you can't confirm a retainer, I'm afraid your dependent has no place here, in Medical or otherwise." She raised the blade, overhead lights flashing on every nick in the steel, every whetstone-kissed edge, every notch of victorious conquest.
And damn it all, Jamet actually saw the other woman consider the option. A cold, lizard-like gaze slid through both green eyes as she considered abandoning her own child to secure life on board. If Peter Minyer never made it onto the Kipper then Targer would be free to push her case with the Captain while still retaining Executive status. There was a good chance she'd weasel that advantage all the way to a Corporate system, unite with backup funds and come back even stronger for revenge.
All it would cost was leaving a small boy on the other side of a dead airlock. One more disposable asset in a career filled with them.
Jamet watched the Executive's eyes go from panicked, to cold, to dead inside. Oh shit. Don't. That's too far, just take worker status you miserable bitch. Outwardly she was still as a statue, console offered patiently.
Targer opened her mouth. "Peter, go wait on the stat-"
Lieutenant Reals beheaded her. "You are under arrest." Hack. "For fiscal malfeasance, failure of Management leading to destruction of Corporate property and loss of capital assets." Chop. "Security! Escort Ms. Targer to the nearest cargo bay and disable the hatch access. If she so much as speaks once shoot her until she stops moving." Jamet kicked the bloody head onto her trophy pile, waist high and moaning victory dirges.
The former Executive jolted in place, then ran an emotional gauntlet from stunned relief all the way back into brazen outrage. "You have no authority to do that! I demand to see-"
"Security Janson." Siers' voice over the speakers boomed like a deity of old. "Secure that woman at once, or I will have you sanctioned."
Prodded into motion, Janson kicked off hard against the wall and all but tackled the woman. Even in freefall his mass took her completely off both feet, flipping them both upside down into the wall. There was a brief struggle, then the big Engineer-turned-Security flipped them both upright again, this time with Targer's hands bound behind her back. He spun her once with a quick shove to her shoulder, snatching both kicking ankles and applying another restraint. Then it was out the far hatch with his struggling burden, dragging her by the skinsuit collar the entire way.
Jamet watched the entire process from inside the airlock, where she'd wisely retreated when two hundred pounds of armored Security suit headed her way. As the last edge of Targer's filthy skinsuit disappeared she nodded once, then rotated in place to look down at the carefully still form of Peter Minyer.
He didn't move, eyes averted toward the wall and one finger barely hooked onto a support handle. Jamet opened her mouth to say something, then mentally reviewed every statement and stalled out. There was nothing inside of her right now that spoke of comfort or reassurance. She was war mode, blooded Corporate, and Executives didn't comfort small, nearly crying children.
Paul saved them both, drifting through the hatch with a practiced flip that somehow made his long limbs look graceful. He had the faceplate transparent now, eyebrows raised and concern written on every feature. "Peter? Are you alright?"
No response. Paul looked at her. "Ma'am, I am going to take him to Medical. You will have to do without me for a bit."
After a moment she nodded, unsure of what else to do. It didn't matter anyways-- the lanky Medical specialist didn't wait for her approval before holding his hand out for Peter's. He took it slowly, careful not to look at anyone or draw unnecessary attention, and a moment later they were both gone.
Jamet floated alone, colder than deep space and hating it.
The exterior hatch beeped. More survivors requesting access.
She looked at the overheads, voice carefully modulated not to crack. "Emilia?" It must have looked like she was pleading with the stars.
There was a long, significant pause until the short techni
cian replied in a wary tone. "Lieutenant?"
"I'm going to need you. Down here, I mean." Another beep. "I can't do this alone."
Chapter 29
Good Times Dry
Lieutenant Jamet stared at the bridge's shared workspace and saw absolutely nothing. "I wouldn't have done it."