“A good question,” Douglas said. “I would say criminal organizations, but they’re a minority of the population. They are good at intimidating more people, though. Major political or religious movements?”
“There’s the anti-humods,” Pitt said.
“Like the people on Gretna,” Ky said. “But I don’t know how prevalent that view is—the militant side of it, I mean. The anti-humods I grew up with were harmless, just very earnest and ready to explain how the real human race was disappearing.”
“We have some concerns,” Douglas said, meaning Mackensee Military Assistance Corporation. “Our intel has been watching a couple of seriously anti-humod governments over the past ten years or so. They could be a source of funding, if Turek convinces them he’s anti-humod and out to restore the position so-called real humans deserve. If any of the governments on our list are the ones ordering warships, I’d be concerned.”
“Well, until we come out of FTL, we can’t even ask the questions,” Ky said. “Nor can I pick Captain Yamini’s brains, since he’s on another ship. So let me bounce another set of ideas off you, if you don’t mind—and that’s how best to use the slender tactical advantage we have of being able to tap Turek’s transmissions and operate in channels he doesn’t have. We hope.”
“Downjump fifteen minutes…secure for downjump…”
“Time flies,” Ky said. “I cut it too close. I’ll see you on the bridge.” She was there with five minutes to spare. Nothing should be here; this was just a convenient mapped jump point far from anything habitable or worth mining; there should be an ansible, though, for the convenience of passing ships, like theirs.
Or the enemy’s. As she’d ordered at the start of the voyage, weapons went live at T minus two. Ransome should be out now, advance scout for them. A minute crawled by, then another, then Vanguard lurched out of FTL into normal space, scan blurred by downjump turbulence.
“Nothing so far,” came the cheerful hail from Teddy Ransome. “Empty as a beer bottle in the morning, and the ansible’s live.”
“That’s good,” Ky said.
Argelos, Yamini, Pettygrew, and Baskerville all reported in within fifteen seconds of their expected time. The three lighter ships microjumped out to keep watch. Ky had allotted two hours here, time to strip the news from the ansible, share it, even discuss it, but she didn’t plan to have everyone clustered and vulnerable. The automated ansible had a minimal number of system boosters, but Ransome, reckless as always, microjumped within a quarter second of the ansible itself, stripped out the news bulletins, and shared them with the others immediately.
“That’s Turek,” Ky said, when the image of a man in crimson and black followed one of an explosion. “We’ve seen a picture of him before.”
“Interesting choice of postures,” Douglas said. “Notice—no podium, no column, the only scale to measure him is the sky and stars. The way he’s folded his arms—it’s like something off a poster, or a book cover. He’s claiming authority—”
You will all know my name…You will all fear my name…I am Gammis Turek…
“Insanity,” Hugh said. “Why would he send out something like this now?”
“To scare people,” Douglas said. “Interesting voice, too. Either he’s had voice training or he’s using a modification.”
“Let’s listen,” Ky said; they fell silent, and listened to the rest of it, watched the massacre of civilians, the town burning. Next came bulletins from different news services, commenting on Turek’s speech.
“Save those,” Ky said. “We don’t have much time; let’s consider Turek’s own statement first. Why would he give his name now? Remember that spy with the suicide trigger, who died saying his name?”
“He’s worried,” Douglas said. “Something has shaken his confidence in his plan.”
“I don’t know why,” Gordon Martin said. “We’ve bloodied his nose a couple of times, but no worse than that. So far he’s won every system he’s attacked.”
“That we know of,” Argelos said. “He might’ve been unsuccessful somewhere.”
“I agree,” Yamini said. “But even if he hasn’t had a major loss, he would be running into some problems of scale by now. I don’t care how many ships he’s got, he’s got to have crew for them—reliable crew, lots more than he started with—and he’s got to have supplies for them, and munitions, or the ships are useless for war. That’s a lot of resources. It isn’t just the money; it’s also the market—where’s he have to go for resupply?”
“If he’s got allies among the anti-humod systems,” Douglas said, “that may be his funding source. They could also be hauling his supplies in commercial vessels.”
“Geoffrey Baines’ Practical Tactics for Regional Conflicts,” Yamini said. Ky stared at the screen, confused.
Douglas smacked his forehead. “Yes! That’s what I was thinking of. That’s his playbook; that’s what he’s been using. And that picture of Baines, the frontispiece, all dressed up in some kind of costume—”
“The Royal Irregulars,” Yamini said. “Blue and yellow, instead of maroon and black.”
“Explain, please,” Ky said. “I don’t remember that source in our tactical studies.”
“You wouldn’t,” Yamini said, “because we didn’t use it. Baines wasn’t actually military; he was an enthusiast, an amateur historian. His tactical instincts were good but he didn’t really understand modern space warfare.”
“It’s been effective for Turek so far,” Ky pointed out.
“Yes, but Baines doesn’t go beyond the elementary. Look, you’ve been able to defeat his people even when you were outnumbered,” Yamini said. “You picked up his tactical approach right away; you were able to improvise something effective against him.”
“Why didn’t he use something else?”
“Maybe he doesn’t know which to use. Most texts now assume a force with certain proportions of ship types he may not have. Or maybe he can’t get his people to understand them—”
“Or he doesn’t trust them,” Douglas said. “He started with criminals, pirates and stationside both. People so unreliable he had to implant them with suicide triggers to be sure they wouldn’t blab his name.”
“He’s got instant communication,” Ky said. “And people he doesn’t completely trust…that’s going to constrain his tactics, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” Yamini said. “And inhibit his subordinates, and annoy them, too.”
“Downjump turbulence!” Lee said from the pilot’s seat.
Hugh turned to look at the screen himself as other ships reported the same. “Estimates?”
“By the turbulence, big and fast.” He looked at Ky. Douglas, to one side, looked as though he wanted to speak but didn’t.
“We run,” Ky said. Hugh looked surprised, but Douglas gave a tiny nod. “Priority’s getting to Cascadia.” She spoke to all the ships. “Close formation, jump on my mark. Come out at the next jump point in the same formation as here, weapons hot, and immediately go into Yellow Three.” She waited as they acknowledged and Teddy Ransome microjumped back to his place, then gave them the signal. The safe haven of FTL closed around Vanguard once again.
“What do you think that was?” Hugh asked.
“Worst case, pursuit,” Ky said. “And maybe we just missed our chance to take out Turek…but I don’t think so. I’m wondering if somebody found out where we were going, and that was a tight formation of his ships.”
“You mean a leak from Mackensee?” Douglas asked, frowning.
“Not necessarily.” Ky felt stupid for not having thought this through before. “Turek knew we left Boxtop with you—the logical destination was your home planet. He must know Stella’s in Cascadia, and that I’d go there; this is on the logical route. All it would take is one person on your home world telling him when we left. Would you vouch for everyone in your system?” Ky asked.
“No,” Douglas said. “But I don’t like the idea that we might have a leak somewhere
. Or that there was someone to intercept and act on it so quickly. If that was pursuit, they were within an hour of us. And they probably know where we’re headed next.”
“Or it could’ve been someone making a fast transit through because they were worried, having run into that broadcast somewhere else,” Hugh said. “Have to say, I’m glad you decided to leave, though. Just in case.”
“Let’s look at the rest of what we pulled off the ansible,” Ky said. “I’m sure the others are.”
The first, time-stamped only shortly after Turek’s broadcast, were simply comments on it, but down the stack came more disturbing reports. One of Sallyon’s two manned ansible stations had been blown—apparently by local terrorists—with the loss of all its personnel. A second message from Turek made it clear that this was because they had “harbored” ships from Bissonet’s militia, and that he would do worse to anyone who supported an allied force opposing him.
“They deserve it,” Martin said. “After the way he treated you.”
“Nobody deserves it,” Ky said, “even when it makes a tidy picture.”
“Notice this is the second time he’s mentioned an allied force,” Douglas said. “I think he’s realized that potential because you’ve bested his people twice now. If he has agents on Slotter Key—and it would be smart to assume he does—he may know Slotter Key privateers have been ordered to Cascadia. Or agents at intermediate stops or on Cascadia may see a buildup.”
Cascadia Station
Despite his conviction that Cascadia Station was safe, Toby had no intention of making Stella angry enough to forbid his going out at all. He told his escort where he was going, and did not object when they fell in behind him. Everyone knew the O’Keefe Ice Cream Palace. Everyone knew it was the place lots of students met in the evenings, just as they knew that ice cream had multiple meanings, not all related to frozen treats. He had been there before, many times.
Zori would be there at 1945, she’d said. He slid into a booth and ordered his usual, five variations on the theme of chocolate. She didn’t expect him to wait for her; she’d order her own when she arrived. His two escorts watched the chaos with obvious disdain as he ate. He could imagine what they were thinking: kids, noise, silliness, stupidity, possible infractions of the code of courtesy. Gales of laughter from the other side of the room underlined that. Toby craned his neck, trying to see what it was.
“Not your crowd,” one of his escort said. “Older kids.” His voice carried the same message: Stupid idiots making a disturbance.
“Zori won’t want to stay here if it’s this noisy,” Toby said. “Her security—” Her parents insisted she have an escort in the evenings, though by day they let her travel alone.
Something crashed to the floor, just out of sight, sounds of metallic and glass breakage mingling with hoots of laughter and squeals of alarm. One of Toby’s escorts stepped nearer to him; the other looked toward the entrance. One of the employees, an older man, bustled toward Toby.
“Excuse me—can you help, please? I’ve put in a call for help, but these ruffians—” Another crash, this time with less laughter and more sounds of alarm.
“We’re on duty,” one of the escorts said. They glanced at each other, then at Toby.
“I’ll stay here,” Toby said. “Promise.”
“Do that,” one escort said. “Do not leave this booth…” And they were off, wading into the thickening crowd. The noise level rose.
“A complimentary drink,” a voice said. “With our thanks—”
Toby glanced up, started to say “Thanks, but—” and a fine spray tingled on his face. Down a lengthening dark tunnel he saw, very clearly, the tiny face of the man who had sprayed him.
Zori and her escort got to the O’Keefe Ice Cream Palace a few minutes late, thanks to the squad of station peacekeepers blocking the short route there. Zori led the way around, through a narrow passage, and emerged in the wider service passage as the back door opened and three men in white carried someone out on a litter.
Someone with Toby’s hair, Toby’s face—pale, but—
“Toby!” Zori said. The men glanced at her, put on speed, and hustled their burden into a utility vehicle with SANITATION DEPT stenciled on the side. “Wait!” Zori tried to run toward the vehicle as the men piled in, but her escort grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “Let me go!” Zori struggled, but could not get free before the vehicle hummed off down the service passage. “That was Toby, you idiot!” Zori said, putting enough distance between them that she could see her escort’s face clearly. “I was meeting him here; you know that. Something happened—I have to find him—follow them—”
“You can’t do that,” her escort said. “I have my orders from your father. To O’Keefe’s and back from O’Keefe’s and nowhere else.”
“But it was Toby! Someone took him! He was hurt, or dead, or—” She took a deep shaky breath. “I have to go see his cousin; she has to know.”
“I’m sure if he has been injured, the receiving clinic will notify her. Do you want to go in, or shall we return home?”
“That wasn’t an ambulance…you know that. Someone’s snatched him. I’m going to call her—” Not for the first time, she wished her father had let her have a skullphone module in her implant. He’d always said there were enough phones around that she didn’t need one.
“No.” The man’s expression hardened. “You’re going home. Now.”
Zori stared at him. Not since she’d been a small child had any of her escorts used that tone. She felt a shiver pass down her back, an icy current. The man’s fingers twitched, moving toward a pocket in his jacket. Thoughts raced through her head, almost too fast to pick up, far too fast to analyze. Without letting her gaze waver from his face, she thought about options. The back door to O’Keefe’s was only a few strides away and she was fast—but she’d have to turn. He was too big; she could not push past him to follow Toby. Sideways—along the passage they’d come…but it was narrow and had that sharp jink and if he caught her from behind…
“Pardon, please!” The breathless male voice from inside O’Keefe’s took the escort’s intent look off her for an instant. Zori slid one foot back, then the other. “Have you seen anything of a boy—about sixteen—coming this way?”
“No,” her escort said, as Zori glanced, recognized Toby’s escort, and said “Yes,” in almost the same instant. From the corner of her eye, she saw her escort lunge toward her; she jumped back, whirled, and ran. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t scream and run. Toby’s escort, startled, stepped out of her way and she plunged into the staff area of O’Keefe’s, shoving her way through a crowd of people, some in waiters’ aprons, some clearly curious and frightened customers. Someone had spilled pink ice cream on the floor; she slipped in it, fell against a worktable, and tripped over someone crouched there. She landed hard on one hip just as more noise broke out behind her. “Excuse me,” she said to the person she’d fallen over—a younger girl, white-faced, her clothes smeared with pink and brown and yellow. “I’m so sorry…”
“No offense,” the girl said; she was trembling. People near the door were yelling, anger and fear mingling; Zori couldn’t make out all the words, but then came a series of dull thumps and screams. The little girl leaned into Zori and grabbed for her hand.
Zori looked around—nothing but legs in that direction. Under the worktable was a shelf partly filled with all-metal bowls and pots. Zori pushed some aside, making a space. A childhood memory nagged at her. “There. Get in there and stay there until you hear the station peacekeepers.”
“Don’t leave me,” the girl whispered. “Please…”
Zori had never seen herself as the nurturing type, but she could not unclench the child’s fingers without hurting her. “We need to be careful, then,” she said. “Let’s just crawl.”
“The floor’s dirty,” the girl said.
“We’re already dirty,” Zori said. “Come on…hold on to my sleeve, so I can crawl.”
/> A short crawl brought them to a door at the far end of the kitchen. Zori put her shoulder to it; it didn’t budge. When she looked up, she saw the touchpad of a security lock and the words PANTRY: EMPLOYEES ONLY. Back the way they’d come, the crowd heaved and struggled, the back of it retreating toward them. This end of the work space had no convenient gaps to hide in.
Memory burst on her. She had been in a kitchen, the kitchen of her childhood home, looking up from this angle. She wasn’t supposed to be in there, but Estelle had been cross, pulling her hair as she combed it, and Cook, who didn’t like Estelle, would probably let her sit on her lap, might even give her a cookie or jam roll. But Cook wasn’t there. The child-Zori had the idea of hiding in the pantry, waiting for Cook to come back.
When footsteps came into the kitchen, she shrank back, leaving the pantry door open just a crack, in case it was Estelle and not Cook.
“You can’t—!” Mama’s voice, high and tense. “You can’t stop me! I’ll tell—!” Something that sounded like a book slammed onto a desk. A cry of pain.
“You!” Daddy’s voice, menacing. “You’ll tell no one.”
“You hit me!”
A laugh, ugly and not funny at all. “That wasn’t a hit. That was a promise. Remember what I told you.”
“My family—” Mama’s voice now was shaky, barely heard through sobs.
Another laugh. “Your family’s a long way away. I’m here. And if you leave—what do you think will happen to the child?”
Mama crying. Daddy angry. Child-Zori couldn’t stand it. She’d opened the door; she’d said—something she couldn’t remember. She’d seen her mother, hand pressed to her face, crying. Her father whirling around, his face shifting in an instant from a terrifying mask of rage to the familiar smile; his hand opening to lay something—she had not seen what—on the counter.
“Zori, you little minx! What are you doing in the kitchen at this hour?” His voice, warm and welcoming. He’d held out his arms; she’d run to him, already sobbing in fright and confusion. “What—did you want a cookie? Did Estelle scold you?”
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