“Ok, kids. I need the grand tour of our ship here. Everything we have, I need to know. I need to know what rattles when we hit fifteen-hundred gees. I need to know what we usually carry for missiles, what our onboard food stores are going to look like when we start doing multi-day deployments, and what our powered armor loadout looks like.”
Yeboah grinned. “I’ll take your questions last-first, since the armory’s right off the boarding tube as it would be in any sensible design. We’re carrying the very latest Cache light powered armor, one for each of us. For boarding ops that don’t require powered armor we’ve got standard M10 6mm carbines and M19 10mm handguns. Also, rocks, sticks, and harsh words.”
Yeboah led Veronica into the ship. “Back aft here we have the galley and living space, pretty Spartan but you were never signed up for a luxury cruise here. Behind here’s a crawl space for the engines, that’s Kellie’s department.”
Alyse mock-sighed. “Only because the rest of you can’t fit back there.”
“With the delta being wide we’ve got some decent space in here, even if most of it is taken up by machinery. The flight deck and mid-deck are a lot more cramped than on regular corvettes, though. Missiles are Star Streak space-to-space nukes, kiloton range. If we have a destroyer to deal with, we’re going to be in trouble, but they should be good for anything that answers to the name frigate or corvette.”
Veronica nodded, “And if we run into a heavy cruiser?”
“That’s when you turn to me and say, ‘Sub-lieutenant Yeboah, bring me my brown pants.’ In sum, we’re a fighter with a few days’ worth of deployability. Not a ship that can be independently deployed for any real length of time.”
“That’s an inevitable tradeoff since with the lethality of the weapons they were up against, fully independent corvettes were a solution with an inherently limited lifetime,” added Veronica, “Or so said the briefing packet I got on the Tomcat from Captain Fox.”
“I’ve been up here for about six months while you were finishing up the Aquarius refit. The Old Man’s ok, right?”
“Yeah, he finished up his physical therapy a month before we recommissioned. He has some scars, but he’s a tough guy. He asked me to say hi for him, of course.”
“I’ll drop him an email in the next few days. It’s just, y’know, optempo is…”
“What it is, and we both know that–and for that matter, he does too. Didn’t he teach us that himself in Command Dynamics?”
“You’re right, Very. It’s just y’know, when Fox gives you his trust, you never, ever want to lose it.”
“Dropping out of contact for a few days–or even a few months–wouldn’t do that, Alyssa, and we both know that.” The two walked forward through the hatch back into the flight deck, which was the closest most starships got to anything approaching fresh air. Even the hydroponics bays, sooner or later, started smelling of the same mix of fouled lubricant and metallic shavings as the rest of the ship; they just took longer. She waved her hand.
“You’re in luck, Skip,” said Kellie, “Tonight’s burger night tonight, and the mess does pretty decent burgers for a change in the weather.”
“I’m surprised. Well, maybe surprised isn’t the right word for it. But I’ve been in this woman’s Navy for the better part of a decade now, counting the Academy, and I’ve never known the food to be anything better than passable. Well, except on cookout days. But that needs a ship small enough to reenter the atmosphere, which a carrier definitely isn’t.”
Yeboah chuckled. “Very, you actually won’t mind this that much. We’ve actually got some half-decent fries on this tub, and the burgers are actually good eating.”
“That’ll be a pleasant surprise! You guys have to be kidding me, though. Decent food on a warship? Next you’ll be telling me the Terril have all become pacifistic vegans.”
Yeboah laughed, “Well if you’ll believe that, let me tell you about what happened on our last flight with Commander Rias before he got promoted to NavAir… so no shit, there we were about half a billion klicks away from the nearest station. It was a quiet day and the last thing we were expecting was a Sagittarian light cruiser to drop out of FTL right on top of us…”
Veronica listened intently as Alyssa began spinning a story that both women knew bore only the most coincidental resemblance to reality.
Chapter 2
Jonah Ress stood at the edge of his rented hangar, wearing a displeased look. The yellow sun beat down on his battered face, and behind him his crew milled about trying not to stare too long at the immaculately white-suited woman who was offering them the job they desperately needed to get their starship back in the air.
Once upon a time, Ress had been a Lieutenant Commander in the Triangle Republic Navy Reserve, the auxiliary of what passed for a navy in a second-rate excuse for a star nation. Now the gray coat of his TRN uniform had been meticulously stripped of its former regalia, except for the commander’s stripes on the sleeves. He said it was to mix in better with the civilian spacers around him, but really he’d sold off his buttons and insignia one at a time to make good on small shortfalls in his cash flow. And in reality, just about everyone who was working in the merchant marine had done time in some navy.
The woman made a fair impression of a demon, with delicately sculpted horns jutting up from her bone-white face and framing an eerily smooth fall of black hair. Her clothing was the exact same shade as her skin, giving the overall impression of an ivory statue with obsidian chips for eyes. The fashion on the outer worlds these days was for people of wealth and power to sponsor their agents to look outlandishly alien and dangerous as a symbol of that wealth and power, and was difficult to imagine anything more so than this sort of full-body biosculpt job. She was unnaturally immaculate in the bright, hot sun and Ress wondered not for the first time during this meeting if she even perspired.
Out on the field, a new pilot was practicing takeoffs and landings with a propeller-driven airplane that looked like it had been old before humanity had ever gone to space. Ress admired that kind of flying–the classics never died, and centuries-old DC-3s probably still carried more cargo on the outer worlds than an actual starship might have. Plus when all you had between you and a fatal crash were old-fashioned airfoils, you learned to fly without the bad habits that an antigrav-trained pilot frequently indulged in because they hadn’t had a stall-happy beast slapping them on the hands every time they got sloppy or careless.
The planet Maraway was one of the worst places in the galaxy to be marooned with a bum warp drive. Work had been so sparse for the last year that they’d been forced to skimp badly on maintenance, so it had surprised absolutely no one on the rust-bucket light freighter Arrant Knave that their primary means of propulsion had succumbed to the inevitable and blown on touchdown. Not just a fuse, but two whole primary driver coil assemblies.
Truth be told, the stranding was probably Jonah’s fault. He’d actively cultured a reputation for being abrasive and a hard driver of bargains, and there was a point after which most employers simply wouldn’t take that sort of attitude out of the guys they hired to haul their cargo around. They wouldn’t need Ress any more than they would need his lip, and his crew? Well his crew were grumbling as well. First the legitimate jobs had dropped off. Now the contraband was starting to dry up as well, and that was truly concerning; most illicit transshippers didn’t care if their pilot was a jerk as long as he got the job done.
“Too many zeroes on one side of the leger,” muttered Ress, “and not enough on the other side.”
But the crew had their reasons for loyalty–not the least of which being Ress’ attitude that a well-behaved crew deserved their pay. He had made it a point of honor to keep paying his men even when his business was on the verge of falling apart around him, and that kind of devotion to his crew meant that they were also willing to pitch in to fix their skipper’s ship. Unfortunately, even with that they were finding themselves short of the technician’s bill. The crew of Arrant
Knave needed a cargo–any cargo, even less questions asked than usual.
The planet itself wasn’t actually that bad; it was a temperate world circling an average G2V main-sequence star at a bit under one AU. Maraway’s CO2 cycle was much slower than Earth’s, giving it a more regular and predictable climate, but other than that it wasn’t a very different world at all than the one that humanity had grown from. All in all, it was actually quite a pleasant world.
Maraway also bore the distinction of being home to an aristocracy of deadly power. Absolutely anything was permitted on Maraway as long as you weren’t caught abusing the aristocrats with it, and Marawayan aristocrats could define “abuse” any way they pleased. For example, telling off a factor who had come calling with a job that sounded too good to be true.
“Are we going to be running something to an Alliance world?” Ress already knew the answer, but he wanted to get it out in the air to keep the woman–and her boss–honest.
“Where else would there be a market for what the Duke has to sell that it would be even remotely as profitable to ship to?” That was certainly true, but the real meaning was perfectly clear. And perfectly deniable.
The white-suited factor was laying out terms that seemed too sweet to question. Which of course meant too sweet to actually accept at face value.
“My employer wishes to move over two hundred tons of cargo on your ship.” She named a price per ton that was far enough past reasonable to have spiked the questioning curiosity of the crew even in flusher times, much less now. With a broken-down drive, Jonah literally couldn’t afford to turn this down.
“That’s enough to replace…”
“Everything that is wrong with your warp drive. Duke Ifrit is a careful man and he believes in investing in companies that show promise.” Ress wondered how much of that was on the level, and how much of it was earwash designed to lull him into being an obedient little marching toy. He was well aware of the reputation of Duke Ifrit, one of the biggest shippers in the Triangle Systems. The man had a reputation for loyal employees–loyal unto the point of death, in fact. That aspect of his reputation was actually the most frightening as far as Ress was concerned. He didn’t want to think about just how anyone got a hold that strong over people.
“I don’t want to be one of Ifrit’s minions, ma’am. No offense to him or to you, but being tied down to one employer isn’t my style, and it isn’t my crew’s. Neither is dying for a contract.”
Her solid black eyes fixed on him from an expressionless face. “Mr. Ifrit’s position, Mr. Ress, is that you will accept this mission and then afterwards you will talk about any further commitments. If you are true to your reputation and you are still willing to work for him.”
“That’s it? No other hooks, no one’s making me do anything more than one run?”
“My Lord will not even demand that you get your repair work done at any particular shop. Your ship will be repaired to your–not his–total satisfaction. He will not leave this offer open for long, however. His shipping deadline is pressing, and he has customers waiting eagerly for the product we are offering you this contract on.”
Ress, still possessed of the belief that he was looking at a job designed to put him in the pocket of the nobility on this lovely little slice of hell, reached out to shake the woman’s hand. He had no idea what needed to get offworld so badly, but it was something illegal in some parts of the galaxy or another or it wouldn’t be worth hiring a freelancer to ship. That part didn’t matter.
“Almost everything’s illegal somewhere in the galaxy, anyway,” he muttered. She made no indication she’d heard it.
Arrant Knave was too important to him–important enough that the desire to see his ship flying again overrode everything. Even if it was outright drug-running or gun-running, Ress decided, he’d do it as long as he could get back into space. Freedom was everything.
It wasn’t as if Arrant Knave hadn’t flown before for employers who thought they could leverage his illicit work for them into long-term servility. Jonah Ress had been sharp enough to keep his freighter his, free and clear, through a decade of some of the roughest flying and ugliest contracts he could imagine.
He reached out his hand and shook the strange, white, cool hand.
“Your cargo will be delivered upon completion of your repairs, Captain Ress. Good fortune to you and yours.” She turned on her heel and walked away.
Out on the airstrip, the buzzing trainer settled down with a distant bark of tires, and began taxiing in from its landing. One pilot finished with his flying for the day. Another about to begin.
The sturdy black form of Jonah’s first mate, Benjamin Mattingly, peered out from the shadow of the Arrant Knave. “I don’t like this.”
“I don’t either. We both know Ifrit’s reputation, and his representative looks like a literal slice of Hell, brought up for the personal reason of showing, not telling, what kind of an employer he is.”
“The kind that doesn’t give a shit what you are or want to be, as long as he gets what he wants?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“So we’ve had about six of those?”
“Five. Lewis doesn’t count; he’s dead.” Mattingly sighed, looking out over the bright day.
“Right.” Ress swept his hair back from his forehead, chuckling a little bit, “Anyway, we need to make sure that Ifrit doesn’t get his claws any deeper in us than we can absolutely help.”
Chapter 3
SV Avenger’s air mess was already full of pilots and shipmates by the time Veronica’s crew arrived, and to her surprise, she saw more than a few of the Interstellar Marine Corps’ maroon berets. On most ships, Marine Country had its own mess, nicknamed the “Card Room,” and seldom did the two services interact during off-duty hours.
Captain Baldwin was talking intently to a woman with strong streaks of grey in her hair. Wearing the uniform of a Marine Colonel (an olive-and-red variant on the familiar Navy undress blacks, with twin silver globe-and-anchors in place of a Navy Captain’s silver planets), she had the look of a veteran MARDET trooper.
Sotto voce, Yeboah said, “That’s Colonel Baldwin–the Commander’s wife.”
“Husband and wife team commanding the ship’s two detachments? Do we get along like siblings? Or like siblings?”
“You have a brother, Very. You know the two sides of that coin are pretty tight. We fight like siblings, but we watch each other’s back like siblings, too. Nobody wants to piss off Mom and Dad.”
Veronica saw the Baldwins’ argument seem to start heating up for a moment. “Except, it seems, for Mom and Dad,” but before she’d even finished talking, the two of them kissed to the vocal applause of both MARDET and AIRDET.
Idly grabbing a burger off the line, wondering what exactly a Jucy Lucy was, Veronica bit absent-mindedly into it and hissed suddenly as a flood of hot cheese came oozing out of the center of the patty.
That’s a Jucy Lucy, apparently! Veronica’s ear tips turned red as she saw a few other pilots watching her reaction with amusement.
“Did you… what was that?” she asked, somewhere between accusation and wonder.
Yeboah said, “One of our cooks is from Old Earth, working-stiff neighborhood in Minneapolis.” Due to its central location, Minneapolis, in the old American state of Minnesota, had become a hub for travel and transit onto and off of the Human homeworld. “This joint in his old neighborhood, Matt’s Bar, it serves this thing. Apparently the place is a real dive with crappy beer, but the burger…”
Veronica took a careful nibble at the edge of the now-congealed cheese. “It speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”
“That it does. Chief Layne says it’d be even better with a cold beer and a ball game, but given that the ball game he’s talking about is baseball, I’ll have to give that a pass.”
Veronica shared a face with Alyssa. The two of them were both soccer players and derby girls, and didn’t have much room in their lives for the love of any other sport, le
t alone one as tediously slow and deliberative as baseball. Veronica took another full bite and maneuvered the food in her mouth to avoid another sharp scalding. She winced as her tongue met the top of her mouth and felt shredded skin there–the sign of a bad cheese burn. Best enjoy her burger while she couldn’t feel the damage. That would happen later.
Captain Baldwin sat down near his newest pilot, giving her just enough space to sit near her crew. His smile was cheerful; his eyes piercing. “Welcome to the family, Lieutenant. Sorry ‘bout the abruptness earlier, but you know how ship business can get you running around–or at least you will.”
Veronica grimaced, “Oh, I know that end of it, too. I was SO for Aquarius’ refit and shakedown last year. By the end I wasn’t sure if it was a reward for handling her in the Captor Incident or a punishment for bringing a brand-new starship back all shot to pieces. Either way, I had writer’s cramp something fierce.”
“How much of your paperwork did you do yourself?” He shifted forward in his seat, apparently interested in what his junior pilot had to say.
“Depressing amount of it. Even with a full clerical team…” She grimaced, shaking out the imaginary writer’s cramp and taking another bite of her hamburger.
“It’s a taste of the business.”
“I figured they wouldn’t actively punish me. But sometimes, you know, the Navy just feels like it does what it wants, and we jump to it.”
Baldwin’s eyes relaxed a bit. “That’s true enough. The amount of paperwork’s why I never made the jump to space warfare, y’know? Brown-shoe’s got less paperwork and I still push spaceships around the map, so to speak.”
Veronica nodded. “I’d never argue with my commanding officer, sir…”
“Sounds like you’re about to, though.”
She mentally winced. His eyes held a sharp challenge. “Well there is that. I’d never argue with my commanding officer–openly, at least–but it’s not like there’s any great secret that Fleet wants me in a center seat sooner than later. Fleet expansion being what it is, there are going to be a lot of baby skippers shortly, and I intend to be part of that group.”
Independent Flight (Aquarius Ascendant) Page 2