I waited in my cabin, watching a classic vid—Kylo vs Kirk. It was okay. I guess I was too concerned with waiting to leave.
They cut in with a standard safety briefing for passengers. Egress instructions, emergency sounds, lock and head discipline. I paid attention to their egress, ignored the rest because I knew it.
Then we shoved off.
I felt safer aboard ship because I always do. I was still as far behind lines as it was possible to be. If they IDed me at any point, I’d be picked up as I debarked.
I started wondering if I should have a final option plan to kill as many as I could before they took me down. I had my lock pin and all the training they’d given me. I figured I could take at least one with me, maybe two or three. If I could get to underdeck, I might manage a couple more.
I was still thinking about that as I heard the chime for chow and walked forward to the galley.
I entered the galley and froze completely.
Bast and Roger were aboard.
They looked at me and nodded as if they had no idea who I was. I shrugged and nodded back and checked the food line to see if they had anything I could eat. They had shrimp salad. I loaded up a bowl and pretended to watch vid while I ate. It was a Spacewrecks episode, showing a ship in far worse need of overhaul than Prophet’s Glory was.
“God . . .” I’d almost said “gods.” “How do they fly in that thing?”
“It looks pretty bad,” I heard Bast say. “Hey, spacer, what’s that about the engines?”
He was pretending to not know anything. That amused me. I didn’t understand even a layman’s explanation of how a string drive works, other than it apparently could be very inefficient and overheat the stinger.
I knew I was supposed to interact casually. Either too much familiarity or too much distance would be suspicious.
I said, “I guess I’ve made tens of trips and never thought about the engines. I know they’re important, but that’s all I know. What happens if they fail?”
I nodded through a summary of reactor, transfer and drive, which I did know as far as summary went. Then as Bast and Roger asked more questions that were very layman, I excused myself and went back to my stateroom.
I wondered if they’d already set some sort of device in action and were en route to another. Or perhaps they were going to live. I really needed to know, and I couldn’t. So I mostly kept to myself and made sure I had vid streaming in the stateroom to prove I was “busy.” I exercised enough to avoid getting twitchy, and tried to keep my brain numb. I used a bit too much Sparkle and a couple of violet zaps. I had some coconut and pineapple rum punch. I couldn’t focus on anything, and fifteen days felt like months. I wanted off.
I’d already made my goodbyes with them, and here they were. It was painful, and probably more so for them.
When we arrived in Alsace, I debarked and thought about working a route, but I’d established this ID and was leaving the system. I coughed up funds on my account and took another leg over to Caledonia.
I didn’t see the guys on this leg. I never saw them again.
I had funds for lodging and was in no hurry to cross the system. I was waiting for news of . . . something. I rented a bunkie and stocked some food.
The further away I got, the safer I felt. I realized now how absolutely on edge I’d been, and with no chaplain or emotional health branch. We’d been in combat, or movement to combat, nonstop for almost two years.
I kept an eye out for potential transport. I found schedules for the expected ships. Tramps could show up at any time, but they had to work around the bulk carriers and military ships. There were less of those though. The UN was consolidating all its stations in every system. They were going to choke down all of humanity the same way they did Earth system. No one was going to be allowed to move freely.
If they won, I was going to be stuck on a scheduled run between systems, and they’d all look the same. There’d be no point in bothering.
I ate well enough, and it was easy to cook for just me. I kept to myself. I wanted to club, but I needed to not.
CHAPTER 38
Then I woke up one morning and the war had gone bugfuck.
Earth was in flames, literally.
I saw the news loads and felt weird. I had a very small part in setting this up, and it had been tough and necessary. So I felt good we’d struck back. But the damage was gut-churning.
Entire cities glowed from energy release. Or what had been cities and were now craters. Huge chunks of their space assets were disabled. They had the one functional jump point. Several production facilities around their gas giants were shrapnel and rubble. So much infrastructure was down there were billions of people killing each other for food, even in ration lines.
I don’t know how many troops we used, but it seemed like it was an entire legion of people like my crew, and several starships. You hear the phrase, “Bombed back to the iron age,” but this almost actually was.
There were guesses all over the place, but the opening suggestions were 500 million dead. That raised to a billion.
We know now that after what they call “second and third order effects,” which I guess I understood but I’d never heard the terms, they’d lost six billion people, twenty percent of their population.
They were dying for weeks after the surrender, because you just can’t move that much food onto a planet, even if the food existed in space. It has to come from other planets, come out of the gravity well, get sorted and processed. The only people who could do that might be the Prescots, but it would have taken weeks to convert from ore to food, and Earth needed food in hours.
What got sent was experts, in cybernetics, medicine, biosphere engineering, and whatever could be thrown. The entire grid converted to moving stuff in toward Earth, not fighting anything.
Earth surrendered. They had no choice, they were terrified, and they wanted it to stop.
Then they wanted us dead, but no one else was going to say a word against us.
I thought about destroying all my Freehold ID. First out of safety. How well could I fake a Caledonian Looper accent to avoid angry mobs? But I was also horrified.
Then I saw images of Jefferson on Grainne, with the UN facility and its dead zone, and the buildings that were obviously abandoned because no business had happened in months. We had craters, too, and there were lots of reports of bioweapons and other nastiness loose down below.
Then I just hated everybody.
I crawled into the bunkie, and alternated booze, violet zaps, sleeping through vid and music, and getting out just enough to shower off the sweat. I was there for a week. I thought about a whole roll of sparkle, a bottle of zaps and a bottle of vodka and checking out.
But I remembered I still had a mission.
It wasn’t until then anyone knew what had happened to the stations. The only word was explosions, loss of containment, astrogation webs down, Jump Points working on a timed emergency schedule set up after a Space Guard vessel popped through to NovRos—their only functioning connection. All they could say was that Lucashab was on emergency lockdown with many casualties.
I knew what had happened. My six closest friends, yes, even Glenn, had gone in with violent intent and succeeded.
I wondered how many of our specialists it had taken to do that? I figured less than a battalion. It turned out it had taken less than two hundred and fifty. To destroy a civilization.
I did have to report in, and it was suddenly safe to travel to the Freehold. Completely unrestricted, with the understanding that we were doing background checks now.
I needed to find transport, and I didn’t have enough for paid fare.
Luckily, a lot of ships were moving back in. We needed supplies, and had open routes.
It took another two weeks, but I found one heading in with gas for Ceileidh. The leak had been fixed, structure was under repair, and they were reoccupying in sections as pressure and atmosphere plants came back up.
They wer
en’t paying much, but that wasn’t a problem. It was going to be a problem if it continued after I went back to work.
There was one bright spot. As I reached the ramp, there was another crewman waiting to board.
“You know who that is, don’t you?” I asked as I strode up the ramp.
The purser said, “We’ve never met, but I know who he is. Welcome aboard, Bert!”
The little fellow yipped and trotted up the ramp, rubbing his head against my legs.
“I’ll take care of him,” I said.
“Understood.” He turned front and shouted, “Admiral aboard!”
I had no idea how the hell he’d gotten here.
Logged in and stowed, I helped secure the cargo, and it felt good to do my job again, without some government stooge billing me for it. That would have killed industry long term, too. Eventually, the UN would have had an entire administration doing all the cargo transfers.
Which had been part of their point. Complete control of the human race.
I was pissed again, because we shouldn’t have had to fight over that, and hurt so many in the process of stopping them from hurting us.
I took out my aggression silently, in a V suit I’d paid too much for, while taking a tug back to connect the cylinder train.
A week later we were warping into Ceileidh. It was about fifteen percent functional, up from zero. They figured another year to get to fifty percent, and three to fix structural damage and get the rest up.
I grabbed my bag, shook hands with the crew, took my pay draft and headed for the military detachment.
But first, I actually did wait in line, where the UN had demanded I wait, for our people to scan me through. I had my legit Caledonian ID, and my expired Resident ID.
It took ten segs of discussion, but they let me through, and I found the military office. It had at least three rings of sentries.
I approached the first, pulled out the ID I had, and said, “Angie Kaneshiro. Contracted intelligence asset to a Blazer element. I need to report in on our missions.”
“Stand by, please, Lady.”
It took another ten segs to get admitted. They searched my bag, and secured it in a bombproof locker.
I was escorted to the Intel office, with one alongside and one behind, weapon drawn. I didn’t blame them.
Yet another reception desk, but it was labeled “INTEL,” and I approached.
“Good morning, Senior. I need to report in from my operations.”
“ID, please.”
I passed it over.
“Ms. Kaneshiro?”
“Yes.”
“This is not where you report. You should be reporting to Troop Operations.”
“I was assigned to intel.”
“We show you on the Churchill for a while. After that the records are . . . incomplete. You need to be debriefed.”
That could be a problem.
I reported to Troop Operations, who took my ID and told me to, “Wait there.”
I waited for a div and more. At least the seat was comfortable.
There were a handful of others, some of them talking to each other. I got snatches of conversation.
“. . . so there I was, in UN space, hoping they didn’t ID me. I have no idea how they never found me. I missed the entire fucking war.”
“Yeah, Caledonia granted me asylum, but wouldn’t let me leave the surface.”
“I actually made it to the embassy, but then the embassy just assigned me security duties. That’s all I’ve done.”
I didn’t belong here. These were displaced troops trying to get home. I was . . .
I wasn’t a combatant, really, but I’d actually managed to engage. But I was displaced, too.
The waiting room cleared. More of them left than arrived, being logged in and accounted for.
I wondered what they had on me, when my name was called.
“Kaneshiro!”
“Here, Warrant,” I said, to be polite. He was fit, shaven bald, looked bored and irritated, and waved me back. His office was private, but just big enough for two chairs and a desk. The walls were bare. I gathered he hadn’t been here long.
He showed me his ID, Warrant Leader Gestang, and pointed to a lengthy advisory that glowed on his desk. He read it aloud.
I understood I was identifying myself as a Freehold Troop. I understood there were no implied promises until identification and investigation. I understood that all my statements would be taken under advisement and cross-checked. If I had any information on others, I should furnish that for cross check.
“Where are you coming from?” he asked.
“I was all over, but just arrived from Caledonia.”
“Can you summarize your circumstances?”
I gave the base date. “I’m a veteran. I volunteered and took passage on the Churchill, came in system during the battle, which I understood was with two UN craft. I was billeted as medic primary, services secondary and tertiary. Then I transferred to Intel and was assigned to support a Blazer detachment as a consulting contractor. I have access to files to furnish to Intel.”
“I’ll forward that.”
“I’m afraid I can’t, Warrant. It’s restricted NTK.”
His expression was condescending. He thought I was some sort of faker looking for headlines.
“Then let’s stick to what you can document. How long were you aboard Churchill?”
“Seventeen days.”
“That’s it?”
“I told you, I transferred to Intel when she ported insystem.”
“Ported where?”
“Some rock they wouldn’t ID for us.”
“You realize Churchill was destroyed insystem?”
“I heard.”
“So we have very few records. That’s inconvenient for us.”
He thought it was convenient for me.
“I am who I say I am. You can check my vitals. I have no reason to lie.”
“I’ll assign you a billet. Stay there, and don’t go looking to sign up with Intel.”
Actually, that’s exactly what I should do, but I wasn’t sure what kind of reception they’d give me.
It was a basic billet, roomier than a ship billet or a bunkie, smaller than a hotel room. My bag was waiting for me.
The grub was okay. It was spicy enough, they had chicken and rice and some fruit. I tried watching vid and couldn’t. I wanted to dance and that was out. I just listened to Martinus and other techmento bands and zoned out.
I spent a lot of the next day sitting in the same office. There were another few displacees.
I heard one say, “So I didn’t officially fight, but I did manage to sabotage a crapton of navigation gear, before I got fired. It was the fourth ship that got me.”
I was glad others had managed. If he was telling the truth. It felt like he was, and I silently wished him luck.
Gestang called me back in.
He introduced Special Agent Morgan, who showed his ID.
“Please elaborate on your intel activities.”
“I was aboard Churchill, went stationside at whatever secret rock we docked at, spoke to an Intel agent about my civilian experience. I knew, still know, where a lot of cubbies, back-passages, access ways and flops are. They assigned me to a team of what I think were Blazers, with a ship acquired from Alsace, the Henri Pieper. I am certain we smuggled, but not entirely sure what. We sabotaged several ships, information systems, docking equipment. We had one mole. We captured the Scrommelfenk, took it with us, and did a refit in Govannon. We took out the station at Salin, which sacrificed the ship. After that we masqueraded as contractors for a while, then we acquired the Camby. Last month they all debarked, and I know they were all involved in that mass attack.” My voice cracked and I teared up.
“I have the PAR, but I was told to deliver it under specific circumstances. I was listed in a document named ‘Angeleyes,’ based on my name.”
The two of them looked back and forth.
&n
bsp; Gestang asked, “You don’t have any reference to an agent Angeleyes?”
Morgan said, “I do not.”
“I was transferred off the Jack Churchill.”
“We show you AWOL. You were upgraded to presumed desertion.”
I had a lump in my throat and couldn’t swallow. This was very, very bad.
“Sir, I left the ship, logged in with Intel. They transferred my possessions after me. The agent I spoke to marked a file as ‘Angeleyes’. She said it would be kept compartmented for my safety. And the mission.”
“Do you remember this agent’s name?”
“I . . .” I didn’t. It had been more than one of our years, almost two Earth years, and I’d been . . . everywhere. “Jeanette, was her first name. I remember that.”
“Garfield?”
“Maybe,” I said. That might have been. I wasn’t sure.
“Or Garweil?”
“That’s it! Yes, Garweil. Blond with gray. Slim build. About thirty-five. Her voice was low and clear.”
“Unfortunately, she was killed in an attack on the station.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” I said. Shit, I was fucked. “Did her records . . . ?”
“If they did they were on an encrypt wipe. Any files not tagged for transfer are gone.”
“There was a lot of money, I—”
“Money is not your problem, Specialist. Disciplinary action is.” He was suddenly very unfriendly.
“I was going to say the money is of less concern than reporting in and getting you the intel I brought.”
“I can take whatever information you have,” he said.
I didn’t trust him, at all.
“Sir, I need an acknowledgment, a signed paper receipt, and neutral territory for this. Or at least a citizen’s office.”
He shook his head. “If the data is what you say it is, I’m not letting anyone see it.”
Angeleyes - eARC Page 35