Free Space

by Scott Bartlett

  Thatcher nodded, his teeth gritted together. “Guerrero, have the Lightfoot ready its rep drones for deployment the moment the Swan’s shields go down. In the meantime, I want her to feed the troop ship power via microwave beam.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Other than that, there was nothing to do but wait. The gunners took down one of the missiles in short order, but then the Swan’s shields collapsed, much sooner than Thatcher had expected.

  He frowned. “Guerrero?”

  She shook her head. “The Lightfoot wasn’t able to establish an energy feed in time, sir.”

  Damn it. Another missile went down, then another. But the remaining pair were close enough to require a broadside effort now, and Thatcher could tell even that wouldn’t be enough to completely remove the threat.

  One more missile went down, and the final one slammed into the Swan’s hull, sending up a brief explosion before the void abruptly swallowed it, leaving a torn and twisted hull streaming debris and atmosphere.

  “Ask the Swan if she’s still mobile, Ops.”

  “She says she is, sir.”

  “Good. Tell her to stay close enough that she can’t be singled out, and order all ships to advance on that planet, ahead full.”

  In this context, “ahead full” meant as fast as their slowest ship, which happened to be the Swan. Luckily the missiles hadn’t hit her engines. Judging by the reports Captain Sho was sending over, it looked like the damage had mostly been to a cargo hold, and although one of the marine berthing compartments had also been breached, the battalion that slept there was elsewhere on the ship when the missile hit, conducting training. Small blessings.

  “Captain Sho is requesting to speak with you directly, sir.”

  Thatcher nodded. “Patch him through.”

  Sho’s angular face appeared on his holoscreen. “Commander, regrettably I must warn you that you are not likely to find the perpetrators. They have probably already departed the vicinity along a trajectory impossible to predict, and are currently coasting away under full stealth.”

  Impossible to predict, you say. Thatcher had a different understanding of that word, and he was willing to bet that given enough time to reason this out, he’d be able to anticipate the attackers’ psychology and meet them at their destination. But Frontier wasn’t here to play cat-and-mouse with cowardly aggressors who attacked from the shadows. They were on their way to stop an invasion.

  “Full stealth,” Thatcher repeated. “So you think Meridian was behind this?”

  “I’m certain of it. I know of no other corp in the north with enough stealth expertise to have the confidence to attack a larger force. And no other corp despises Kibishii enough to attempt something like this. This is a message, Commander. They do not like the alliance our companies have forged.”

  Thatcher inclined his head, considering. “Your company specializes in stealth detection. Does it not?”

  “We do. Our tech is proprietary, of course. What I can say is that, under these conditions, detecting our attackers is unlikely.”

  “Fine. We’ll do a sweep of the planet, and then the surrounding area. I’ll give it one hour. But if it’s as you say, and our search doesn’t turn up anything, then we’ll leave the system after that.”

  “I believe this to be the wisest course.”

  The Frontier ships completed a full orbit of the planet that had hidden their attackers, with exactly the result Sho had predicted.

  No result, that is. Thatcher rose from the captain’s chair. “You have the conn, Ortega. Complete the sweep, and then take us out of the system as planned. Call me before we transition through the regional jump gate.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Twenty minutes later, he was walking the Jersey’s passageways with Veronica Rose, carefully steering them away from any dead ends. He remembered the last time they’d walked these corridors alone together, when she’d invited him to dine with her. A perfectly reasonable request, on the face of it. And yet, when she’d made it, he’d automatically excused himself in supremely awkward fashion.

  “Sho’s right,” Rose said now. “It has to be Meridian. What I can’t understand is why they’d try to disrupt a mission to prevent the Xanthic from attacking the Cluster.”

  Thatcher permitted himself a smile, charmed by her idealism. They both faced forward, and so she didn’t witness the expression, which disappeared as quickly as it came. “Sho thinks Meridian has taken a disliking to our new partnership, and I agree with him.” This time, his lips twitched downward. “We’re likely to be the target next time, Ms. Rose. We gained a friend in Kibishii, but we made a new enemy in the process. Possibly several, depending on how many friends Meridian has in the Daybreak Combine.”

  Frontier’s CEO shook her head. “It was the right thing to do.”

  “I agree with you. But that doesn’t change much, sadly.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  New Houston, Oasis Colony

  Freedom System, Dupliss Region

  Earth Year 2290

  Hans Mittelman ducked into a doorway as the stocky man ahead of him stumbled to a halt, then turned to glance back down the alleyway. Apparently convinced he was alone, he continued his uneven stagger toward his third destination of the night.

  Mittelman waited until his quarry had left the alley, then adjusted his eyepiece, shoved his hands into his long coat, and followed.

  The next street contained no sign of the carouser, but it wasn’t difficult to tell where he’d gone. Outside a lit doorway nearby, a trio of fur-adorned women stood smoking and appraising Mittelman with sharp eyes. He smiled at them and passed inside.

  The long, low-ceilinged bar looked like it should have been filled with smoke, but maybe he’d been watching too many classic films from Earth, of late. Indoor smoking wasn’t allowed anywhere in New Houston, not that the rule needed much enforcing. For the most part, people had stopped inhaling carcinogens centuries ago.

  He ambled toward an empty seat on his far right, which faced the rest of the long rectangle of a room. Halfway there he passed his prey, who had his elbows planted on the bar and his head in his hands. He muttered to himself like a man adding a long string of figures.

  “Get you anything, friend?” the bartender asked Mittelman’s mark, but the mark just glared back.

  Financially embarrassed? Mittelman grinned as he reached his seat. It made sense. Hiro Yoshida had recently experienced two pay cuts.

  He lowered himself into the hard-backed, rotating stool, flicking his gaze across his eyepiece, which dutifully scrolled through Hiro Yoshida’s profile for him. Two breaches of conduct in the last year. Once aboard the Crane, the Kibishii troop ship he called home, and once in another bar on Glimmering Vista, a colony in Kreng Region. Hiro Yoshida was one demerit away from losing his job, and given his record, it seemed unlikely any other corp would be interested in hiring him.

  What does a dimwitted drunk do then to make ends meet? Mittelman continued to scroll, delving deeper into Yoshida’s past. History of aggression. Raised in a series of boarding homes. Very poorly socialized.

  And yet, Yoshida had a soft spot. A conscience, or at least a stunted faculty some might call a conscience. If he’d only had himself to take care of, he might have allowed himself to sink into a mire of alcohol and poverty, until he eventually died alone on some darkened street. But Hiro Yoshida had a family living on a tucked-away colony in Xu Region—a wife, four children, and a dog. If he lost his job as a Kibishii marine, they would suffer. Considerably.

  All of which made Hiro Yoshida perfectly suited to Mittelman’s purposes.

  Yoshida continued holding his head, presumably working on piecing together his next thought. Mittelman made a study of the bottles lined up to his right, wondering what he should order to blend in. As he did, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror covering the bar’s entire rear wall.

  Shoulder-length blond hair. A sculpted prosthetic that covered his facial hair. Lenses that rendered
his gray eyes the color of mud.

  Everything seems in place.

  “What can I get for you this evening?” The bartender had made his way over to Mittelman’s end of the bar, having apparently given up on Yoshida for the time being.

  Eyes on the Japanese man, Mittelman leaned over the bar top, beckoning the server to draw nearer.

  “I’d like a double rum on the rocks,” he whispered. “And get our friend over there the same. But don’t give any indication that I was the one to send it to him.”

  The bartender frowned. “I don’t think he needs any more.”

  Mittelman used his eyepiece to transmit an amount of currency, designated as a tip. “What if a hundred credits thought he did need more?”

  A bartop display dinged. The bartender stared at it, frown deepening. Nevertheless, he proceeded to pour both drinks. He gave Mittelman his first, then slammed Yoshida’s down in front of him.

  The marine started, hand automatically curling around the glass. “Who gave this?” he asked in broken English.

  “It’s on the house.”

  “Who?”

  “On the house,” the bartender said, louder.

  Yoshida seemed to accept this, and knocked the drink back in one gulp. A couple of the ice cubes slid past his chin to clink onto the floor.

  As the bartender turned back to Mittelman, the display was already chiming with a second tip, of the same amount.

  “Another,” he mouthed.

  Yoshida drank the second quicker than the first, and it seemed to rouse him from his stupor, at least momentarily. He brought his shoulders back, peered around the bar with a commanding gaze, then turned toward the exit, almost falling over.

  Mittelman discreetly rose to his feet, leaving his own beverage barely touched. Seconds after Yoshida had stumbled outside, Mittelman passed through the exit behind him.

  Following Yoshida down the mostly empty street, he realized he hadn’t expected to enjoy this nearly so much. The news he’d received earlier in the day had soured his mood for hours, but this little outing was proving to be the perfect pick-me-up.

  Word had arrived this morning that Oasis Colony was due to receive its very own instant comm unit, and it would be installed inside Frontier HQ. Right now, the equipment was sitting in planetary orbit, on Helio Base Two. It would be shipped to Oasis’ surface in little more than twelve hours, after which it would sit in a warehouse for five more before the techs arrived to unpack it, transport it, and install it inside the office Mittelman currently occupied.

  Before leaving on her little adventure with the gallant Commander Thatcher, Veronica Rose had left Mittelman in charge of Frontier operations on Oasis. Not under his real name, of course, but the power was effectively his.

  And now that he would have an instant line to Rose aboard the New Jersey, he would be able to consult her on every minute detail of the company’s operations. No doubt she would expect to be consulted.

  Except, Mittelman knew from years of working with her that they had very different ideas about how Frontier should be run. Rose had no idea of this, because he hadn’t allowed her to find out. But he anticipated some tough decisions were coming the company’s way in the very near future, and he felt certain Rose would screw them up.

  But only if she was given the opportunity to do so.

  Hiro Yoshida had reached the entrance to another bar, but the bouncer there was shaking his head. Mittelman wasn’t close enough to hear, though it wasn’t difficult to guess what was being said: Yoshida was too drunk. They didn’t want him inside.

  Yoshida tried to push past anyway, and the bouncer placed a hand on his chest, walking him back. The marine’s balance wasn’t what it might have been, and he stumbled once before his training kicked in and his fist came flying at the bouncer’s jaw, too fast for the man to intercept.

  The bouncer, who was at least twice the size of Yoshida, stumbled back against the wall, hand flying to the injury. He recovered, pushing himself out from the wall and toward Yoshida, coming at him with a haymaker. The marine easily dodged, then uppercutted the man.

  Another bouncer emerged from the bar, saw what was happening, and came at Yoshida from behind, locking him into a standing arm-bar. Yoshida struggled against his grasp, but the bouncer’s grip was firm. “Call the cops,” he barked to the other bouncer, who was still nursing his jaw.

  Mittelman stepped between the two bouncers. “I’ll take it from here, gentlemen.”

  The bouncer squinted at him over Yoshida’s head. “Who are you?”

  He fished a wallet from his inside jacket pocket, then let it fall open to reveal an ID that named him Gregory Smith, New Houston Peacekeeping Officer. “I’ll see that he’s brought into custody, and I’ll be in contact about pressing charges.” He nodded at the injured bouncer who nodded back.

  Less than a minute later, he had Yoshida in handcuffs and was marching him away down the street.

  “Where is your speeder,” Yoshida asked, sounding more sober than before.

  Mittelman ignored him.

  A couple blocks later, they came to an office building, and Mittelman slapped another ID card against the reader near the door. He marched Yoshida inside, then into an elevator. The doors closed, and he punched the button for third floor. The Japanese marine was staring around the elevator, looking confused.

  “Wondering where you are, Hiro? Doesn’t look much like a Peacekeeper Station, does it?”

  Yoshida squinted. “How do you know my name?”

  “I know a lot about you. I also know about the family who’ll go hungry if you’re charged with disorderly conduct again.”

  Yoshida closed his eyes and hung his head.

  The elevator doors opened again, and Mittelman escorted Yoshida down the hall, producing the same ID card to gain admittance to the office he’d rented under yet another identity, for the sole purpose of meeting and coordinating with Yoshida.

  He showed the marine to a chair, then walked around the desk to sit opposite him. Other than a filing cabinet and a small stand with a kettle and a French press, the office was empty.

  “I can make this go away, Hiro.”

  The marine’s eyes widened slightly. “How?”

  “Those bouncers didn’t get your name. As long as you stay clear of that bar from now on, you should be able to avoid any more demerits. Unless I decide otherwise.”

  That brought a slight frown to Yoshida’s face.

  “You’re probably too drunk to discuss this right now. Which is why I’ll be following up with you tomorrow. But for now, just remember that I have the power to end your career at any time. I know who you are, and the bar has video of what you did. I have the power to obtain that video, and I will. Remember that, Hiro.”

  “Tell me what you want.”

  Mittelman stroked his chin, the prosthetic foreign to his fingers. Maybe the marine had sobered up enough. I’ll remind him about this tomorrow morning either way. “In less than twelve hours, an expensive piece of equipment will make its way from orbit to sit in a warehouse here in New Houston. It will be there for five more hours after that. Before it leaves, I want you to find your way into that warehouse and destroy the equipment. Security isn’t very high, and I can provide you with instructions on how to get in and out. Do this, and you will get to keep your job. Fail, and you lose it. If you get caught, you’ll have to take the fall.” Mittelman smiled. “A simple act of vandalism. That’s all I ask.”

  “I will do it.” Yoshida’s eyes seemed clear as they locked onto Mittelman’s.

  He nodded. “Very good. It would be best for you to succeed, and not get caught. This is important to both of us, now.”

  If the comm unit did make it to Frontier HQ, Mittelman would find another way to make instant communications with Veronica Rose impossible. But this way would be the simplest.

  Even if Yoshida did get caught and tried to finger Mittelman, however, it wouldn’t matter. Because Mittelman wasn’t Mittelman, was he?
r />   Chapter Fourteen

  Aboard the New Jersey

  Durance System, Tempore Region

  Earth Year 2290

  “They’ve been hailing us for the last thirty minutes.” Thatcher tried to keep his voice neutral, but he couldn’t prevent some of his disbelief from creeping into it.

  Rose stood at his side once more, gazing at the holotank in bemusement, just as he was doing. The Jersey had been making good time through the Tempore Region, with minimal traffic of any kind. A couple of times, they’d spotted another ship on the opposite side of the star system they were traveling through, but Guerrero hadn’t been able to get a profile read either time, and neither vessel had attempted to make contact.

  This was a little different. The lone destroyer rendered inside the great holotank was approaching on an intercept course, just as Thatcher had done to force a conversation with the Ulysses, back in Dupliss. Except, this time coming to blows seemed much more likely. The destroyer was the Eagle, Ramon Pegg’s flagship. Pegg, the CEO of Reardon Interstellar. Who Frontier had recently chased from Dupliss after liberating Oasis Colony from them.

  “We’ll have to speak with him.” Even as she said it, Rose shook her head in bewilderment. “He’s alone, and together, our ships should handle him fairly easily—right?”

  Thatcher nodded.

  Rose pressed her lips together. “But we did grant him freedom as part of his surrender. I guess it would be wrong to wipe him from the universe like the scum he is.” She turned to Guerrero, then hesitated, glancing back at Thatcher.

  He nodded again.

  “Accept the transmission, Lieutenant.” Rose said.

  Pegg’s thin, bald head appeared inside the holotank, rendered in 3D, along with the sunglasses he insisted on wearing, like some hackneyed poker player.

  Rose stepped forward. “We should blow your ship from space.”

  A pained expression flitted across Pegg’s face, his bushy eyebrows meeting in the center while his worm-like lips contorted. “I would prefer if you didn’t. I am just here to talk.”