“Useless flogger,” Stines muttered. “What do we do, Chip? Just stand here cutting down crab soldiers till we run outta rounds?”
“Not much of a plan,” Chipper admitted. He came around the nose of the Lioness and leaned on it. “Let me think.”
Stines came round to join him. “Think fast.”
“Why’s it suddenly up to me?”
“It just is.”
“Well, stop talking then. And maybe get us each a spare air-recycler in case we are out here for a while.”
“Telltales say the air’s good here.”
“Do it.”
“Okay. Sure. I can do that. Will our recyclers work for Miss Hairy Neck up top?” Stines pointed up at Vazak who peered down at them from the T15’s roof.
“Did you read the briefing?”
“The good bits.”
“In the bits you didn’t read, it said that Vazak’s suit is retrofitted to adapt our recyclers.”
Stines moved away and toward the ramp. “Could’ve just said yes.”
Comms fell mercifully silent. Chipper tried to make the most of it, thinking hard. All he kept coming up with were questions. Chief among them, what was taking Assured so long to come for them?
Judging by the pungent odor infusing the yacht’s lounge, Chlalloun had peed himself. The shortass alien cowered on the semicircular couch where Umbrano had pushed him, releasing soft moans on each breath, hands twisting at his ears.
Yeah, you ugly little hacker. We’re in some trouble here, all right.
Ana had coiled cross-legged on top of the opposite table. Fowler was still forward with the pilot—she could hear them arguing again, although the sealed cockpit door muted the actual words. The pilot, Piers, may have been resisting, but the ship was still moving out toward the system’s leappoint—she’d heard that much before the door closed. She’d also heard the colonel outline the exact location of Piers’s children on Castor and the things that would happen to them if the man didn’t comply.
What the helldamn is happening? How is this happening?
Umbrano paced by her, on one of his short journeys up and down the gap between the lounge tables. He’d slung the rifle over his back again. Suddenly, he wheeled on the terrified Tluaan scientist, grimacing. “You’ve pissed yourself? Jogi, this mabaho ulol has pissed himself!”
“Yuh,” she said. “And you’re closest.”
“Closest to what?”
“To him, idiot.”
“What you mean?”
She smacked her forehead. “Put him in the bathroom to clean up, and find him new pants from one of the cabins.”
“What! I’m not doin’ that.”
She grit her teeth. “You are.”
“The hell!”
“Umbrano. Hecate’s gone. I’m next in charge. So, do as you’re told.”
He hulked over her, his face flushed, nostrils wide as the air rushed in and out of them. He looked for all the universe like a mad bull. His breath reminded her of one too, rivaling Chlalloun’s urine for stink. Most people would be cowed by his obvious strength and size and temper; Ana simply saw how easy it would be to flick out a boot and catch him in the groin.
“Better think of what you’re doing, katoto,” she told him, evenly.
Relenting, he whirled toward the Tlu with a snarled “¡Maldita sea!” He jabbed a finger toward the bathroom end of the ship. “Get!”
When the prisoner shrank back rather than obeying, he reached over and yanked him out of the chair then sent him stumbling down the passage toward the yacht’s rear compartments. Ana caught sight of the dark patch along one leg of the poor bastard’s trousers—and caught a stronger whiff of piss. She put an arm over her nose. As Umbrano stomped after Chlalloun, she said, “And bring me some cleaning rags. And spray.”
He didn’t reply, busy getting Chlalloun into the bathroom, demanding in simple English that the Tlu wash himself and trash his pants.
“Better yet,” she called, “see if there’s a bot round here that can clean up.”
A shrill whistle from the direction of the cockpit brought her off the table.
Fowler stood gripping the doorframe. “What is going on?”
“Scientist is scared and pissed himself,” she told him.
“Let Umbrano deal with it. I want you up here.”
“Fine with me,” she muttered with a quick look at the wet patch on the couch. If he lived, that prissy Ambassador and his stuck-up minder were gonna love that.
She gathered up the rifle—she’d need it near her if she was getting out of this mess—and headed the colonel’s way. At the door, he raised a hand to stop her, leaning into the cockpit to tell Piers, “Enough bullshit. I know this ship’s as fast as Assured, so pick up the pace.”
“Sir, you wanted me?” She said it more to pull Fowler’s attention away from Piers than because she actually wanted orders. She could’ve shot him, she knew. Right then when his back was turned. She could’ve raised the rifle and blown off his head.
Yeah, and blown a hole through the forward windows.
Without bothering to close the door behind him, Fowler leaned a shoulder on the bulkhead. “Watch this roach turd for the next hour. Once he’s finished entering navdata, he can go in his cabin. You’ll stay in there with him in case he tries something. Ship can fly itself till we’re near the leappoint. Later, I’ll send Umby in to relieve you and you can catch some sleep. You look tired, Enforcer.”
She straightened her posture. “I’m fine, sir.”
No, I’m not. I’m really not.
He studied her a moment. “We lost Manolo and Hecate. You’re okay with that?”
She hesitated over a lie, then decided that if trust was to be maintained—if she was going to find a way out of this—a little truth could help here. “I’m okay with losing Hecate.”
A harsh smile ghosted his face for a second. “I’m sure you are. Well, no big. They both died for the cause.”
Did that mean Assured was gone already? “Sir, I have to ask. What is happening? We’re blowing up a Confed ship?”
“Hacking scumbags,” Piers said.
“We’re—” She caught herself before using the word kidnapping. “—capturing a Tluaan dude. The DCHC ain’t gonna take this well.”
“The DCHC won’t know about it for a long time.” The smugness in his expression was unmistakable. He was daring her to ask.
“How’s that, sir?”
“We’re way better than the Confeds at coding and jacking, as you well know. Back in Chaatu system, just after the hostage situation, I fired off a message to Xerxes using the Confeds’ own system. A self-deleting file that left no trace. Right under arrogant Pan’s nose and he knew nothing about it. Then we loaded up a catch-and-delete program that sidelined any FTL datapackets Assured sent from that point on. I’m pretty certain the DCHC don’t even know their ship came to Kh’het. To make sure of that, we sabotaged the signal-buoy when they launched it upon arrival here. They think signals are getting out of this system, but they certainly are not.”
“How …?” she started. Even with Manolo and Hecate’s superior coding smarts, Fowler must have had help to do all that. Someone on the Confed side. Then it hit her. There was one person on Assured who was very happy to do bad things for big money. “Sintopas?”
Fowler winked.
That rat weasel.
“Great idea, sir.”
“Everything has a weakness, even a crew. Just gotta look in the right place.”
“So … we’re taking news of Kh’het back to our people? That’s the point of this?”
“News. And something more.” He jerked his head in the direction of Umbrano’s voice.
“The scientist?” It clicked. “Tluaan med tech.”
“Whatever’s in his head, yes. And that’ll be plenty. Think how useful regrowing a limb would be to us. Defeating viruses once and for all. Creating targeted viruses—that was something the little shit actually suggested doing to th
e Xenthracr. The Confeds want to dance around, taking years to settle on trading for Tluaan tech. When all we have to do is take it.”
“Sir, I hate to keep debating things with you, but the Confederation ain’t gonna take forever to find out about this. They got a bigger navy than us. Much bigger.”
“Plenty of small nations over the millennia have taken down bigger ones simply with better technology.”
She rubbed at her head, gathering her thoughts. This was crazy. But then, everything had been getting crazier for weeks. Past him, Piers stared back at her, shock and hatred in his eyes. It wasn’t her he should be hating.
You gotta deal with this, chica, she told herself. You gotta turn this around.
That meant keeping Fowler talking and sharing info for as long as possible.
“Sir, I gotta ask. Why didn’t you tell me this before? Hecate knew, Manolo knew. Umbrano too?”
“Not him.” Even though there was no way Umby could hear them from the other end of the yacht, Fowler dropped his voice a little. “I wasn’t trusting that dumbass with anything. He couldn’t help with the coding anyway.”
“But I coulda,” she persisted.
“Yeah.” He narrowed one eye. “Hecate was sure you’d gone all Peacer on us, to be honest.”
Her scowl seemed to relax him on that score, although it wasn’t outrage that had triggered it. She had been “going Peacer”—and she couldn’t see anything wrong with it. “I was honoring Wepps for saving my ass, sure, but …”
Fowler put his hand to his heart. “Perdón. We were wrong there, Jogi. Hecate and me.”
“I’m Xerxian,” she said, summoning as much bluster as she could fake. “I’m Sevens Party.”
“I see that now.” The hand he lay on her shoulder was probably meant to be fatherly. It was all she could do not to knee him in the nuts. “I see that clearly. Your part in this won’t go unnoticed. There are big, big rewards ahead for all of us. It’s just a shame that Manolo and Hecate will miss out. Although a warrior’s hell awaits them both.”
“What if Assured got a signal to the Tluaan frigate? There’s Navy personnel on that. Maybe they can’t speak to Confed space now, but if the Confeds come looking, they’ll tell ’em then.” It wasn’t idle curiosity, nor attention to detail. If Ana could trick him into detouring there to go on a clean-up, there was a chance she could get him and Umbrano into a position where she could take them out.
You’d shoot your own people, girl?
Hell, yes, she would. And yes, she must. Somehow. Soon.
But getting the drop on them both wasn’t something to attempt without serious planning. Even now, with Fowler so close, she didn’t back herself in a hand-to-hand. And she couldn’t guarantee she’d get her gun or knife out cleanly and quickly enough. And Umby? He might be dumb as a trash can, but he was a hacking good soldier.
“If the frigate crew knows what happened—” she started again.
He cut her off. “They don’t. When Manolo triggered the reactor overload, the same go code messed up Assured’s outgoing signals. She preprogrammed a systems scrambler for the Lioness too, in case it tried to chase us. Not that it mattered in the end.”
Chipper. Her already churning stomach did another turn. Chipper was stranded on that orbital. Just hold on, kaibigan. Dunno how I’m gonna do it, but I’ll get back to you. Somehow.
Face blank, she said, “A reactor overload. That’s smart, sir.”
Worse than a bomb. More reliable. Had it happened yet? Were they all dead? Perhaps the crew had found it in time to fix it.
Unaware of her thoughts, Fowler plucked the rifle from her hands. He drew her past him and into the cockpit. “I don’t think you’ll need this to keep our pilot in line.” He moved away, then turned back. “Oh. By the way. More fun info I should tell you. That same go code will have killed the damn Devilfly’s systems by now. If Assured got any pods out, they’ll be sitting up nice and easy for the Xenthracr fighters to pick off when they return. So, no witnesses.”
“You are a hacking psychopath,” Piers grated from his seat.
“Jogi, be careful of this one. He’s armed with bad language and dirty looks. Time to focus on your job, pilot, on keeping your spawn safe and well.” He gave Ana his ghoulish grin. “Feel like a late supper? I’ll go see what luxuries a rich Ambassador has onboard.”
Swearing, Piers returned his focus to the navcomputer.
Ana checked on how far Fowler had wandered away, swept her gaze across the room to check whether he’d left a roachbot—it was just the kind of thing he’d do. Caution satisfied, she said to Piers, “Finish whatever it is you’re doing. Find out if Assured blew up. Then you and I gotta talk.”
“Do you assholes even know how to fly this thing?” Westermann shouted.
She was up and level with Gregory, working her way forward using whatever handholds she could find. A minute earlier, the capsule had lost gravity completely along with the unpredictable jolts and pressures of acceleration and course corrections.
“Apologies, Corporal,” assistant helmsman Yassim replied. “Not much we could do about it.”
“Nearly broke my hacking neck!”
“Quit complaining,” snapped a weapons operator. “XO’s giving up his life and you’re worried about a few bruises?”
“You’ll be worrying about bruises when I reach you,” Westermann replied.
Several people shouted at her. One of them was Chief Lindberg, the very person who, by rank, should be enforcing order. Westermann took none of them seriously, straining toward a vacant seat, swearing and snapping at them as she went.
For a moment, Gregory thought Grace’s tight grip on his hand was an offer of reassurance. But her expression was severe. “I think you’re the boss now,” she said.
He wasn’t so sure about that. But the chaos couldn’t continue.
“Helmsmen!” he shouted, surprised at both the volume and the command tone he managed. The squabbling ended instantly. As did Grace’s crushing grip. “Status report on Assured.”
“Uh … Still there. But moving away. Now four thousand thirty kilometers out from our position.” Yassim’s voice was shaky. She added, “Sir.”
Westermann finally pushed herself across the gap between the bulkhead and the chairs, then wormed her way into one of them.
“Radiation spiking on Assured, though,” the other helmsman said. Before he could continue, his companion interrupted him.
“Incoming transmission from Devilfly. Putting on-speakers.”
A burst of static then, “… hinky! Losing … Bogeys abandoning …” More static then dead silence.
“Lost her,” Yassim confirmed.
Chief Lindberg cursed loudly, but offered no guidance—either to the helm, to Gregory or to the crewers in general.
Still on me, then.
Chris Gregory was strapped to a chair and tucked in the back row of a flying box—a box plummeting toward an alien planet harboring hostile forces. The feeling of impotence was almost overwhelming.
What was happening to Berderhan? To the other pods? To—
The male helmsman, Toller, swore loudly. “Oh, God! Explosion!”
A wave of murmured horror swept the pod front to back.
“She’s gone?” asked Westermann.
No one answered. Apart from the clicking of temperature changes in the hull, and the shift of clothing against restraints, the pod fell silent.
No, he’s gone, Gregory thought. Brave Commander Chinyama whom he’d last seen stooping over the helm controls. He and anyone else who didn’t make it out.
“Helm,” he said. When they didn’t respond, he repeated it, deeper and harsher.
Toller’s response was strained. “Yes? Yes, sir?”
“Where is this pod going? Our pod.”
“We’re … It’s your choice, sir.”
“Can we make it to Kh’het4?” Many heads turned to look at each other. He read their meaning immediately. “Dumb question. It’s too far
.”
“Sir, it’s your choice on Kh’het3. But we’re scanning for a fresh water source to land in or near.”
He thought of one immediately. “The crash site of the original Tluaan shuttle. The one in the extinct volcano. It’s on the nearside of the planet?”
“Uh … Yes.”
“There’s fresh water in the caldera’s lake. Head there if you can.” He didn’t mention it to the group, but the reconnaissance notes had shown images of what might be a collapsed radio tower or antenna. If the Qesh had communications—or there were enough of their savants around to fix or improve the pod’s transmitter—such a tower could prove extremely useful. There was also that stone-lined entryway into the mountain itself for shelter.
“Aye. Sir.”
“Pretty close to that mining area,” Hecate said over her shoulder. “Or do you wanna get captured by lobsters with guns?” The intrusion of her cocky voice was not welcome. Several people swore at her.
“The inside of that caldera is sheltered from the mining colony. And from approaching aircraft. Besides,” he added, “if we’re going to be here a while, the survey team didn’t find any dangerous wildlife in there, but there was a single Qesh gathering food. Food could come in handy. As could the assistance of local Qesh.”
“Aye, sir,” said both helmsmen. Their tone suggested agreement, which relieved him. Grace nodded in approval at his thought process.
“‘If we’re going to be here for a while,’” Hecate said, mocking his voice and tone.
“Shut up!” snapped Westermann. Thankfully, Hecate did.
“Are we safe?” Gregory asked next. Neither helmsman responded. Pan wouldn’t have accepted that, so neither would he. “Helm! Concentrate. Our status and that of the other pods? Are we safe from the explosion?”
“Um. Our pod is well ahead of the blast wave and debris. We’ll outdistance it. Status of other pods as follows. I count … eleven clear. Three—” His voice caught a moment before he rallied. “Three within range of debris wave.”
No one in the crew responded to this further bad news. Perhaps their training was kicking in again. Perhaps they were becoming numb.
Assured (Envoys Book 2) Page 24