But the past twenty-four hours had produced twenty-nine deaths, a notable bump. And here were three unexplained deaths in previously healthy men of early middle age. Not accidents, not assaults, no real reason…all sudden deaths, dead before the medics could arrive and do anything. Heart failure. Heart failure, in men so young, men whose last medical checkup had been clean? Modern diagnostics didn’t miss things like that. No wonder Dispatch had flagged them for investigation.
And all worked in the yards. Coincidence? It had to be coincidence, didn’t it?
But five lines down he saw another. A woman’s sudden collapse in a public place, death too quick for medical intervention. How common was that? Forty-year-old women—she was, or had been, an accountant, Paddy noted, in the same firm one of the men had worked for—didn’t have sudden death from undiscovered heart disease. Not in this era. Not with mandatory health tests…
Lisa always said he had a streak of paranoia, and right now that streak was buzzing up and down his spinal cord, raising the hair on his neck. He initialed the autopsy requests, marked them URGENT, and sent them on. The dead Miznarii’s family would no doubt try to prevent the autopsy, but the law was on his side.
Could this be related to the alert they’d had three tendays before? He glanced at the master schedule. They’d been briefed that an attack might come when a frame of ships neared completion, and Frame Six was within days of completion…they were expecting the customer to arrive to take delivery.
He looked at the list again. The dead Miznarii had worked on Frame Six and Frame Five both, as assemblers. Another had worked only on Frame Five. But the other dead man had been a specialist in control systems, and he had worked on Frame Six.
Paddy pulled up the man’s record. Banamir Attanda, unmarried, no close relatives in Tobados Yards station. No obvious legal problems…but his financial records were peculiar. Everyone had had problems in the dearth of ship orders a few years past, but his balance had sunk faster than most…faster than some married men with children to support. It couldn’t be drugs, not with his performance reviews. Women? Or gambling? It had to be one of those, Paddy thought.
Surveillance videos in the local gambling hells showed Banamir’s face at table after table. The uneasy feeling intensified. Gamblers—serious gamblers—were easy to manipulate. They always thought they had a system, but gambling led to debts—often large ones—and too often debts led to embezzling.
Paddy shook his head as the files opened to show a familiar pattern. Embezzling…then blackmail.
The question was, what had Banamir Attanda used to pay his gambling debts?
Vanguard dropped out of FTL flight at Moray System on schedule and in the approach vector Moray’s defense command had requested, a low-relative-velocity insertion at a high angle to the ecliptic, far out on the fringes of the system, four light-hours from the primary. Ky, in the new combat command center, stared at the duplicate scan displays. She felt isolated, her familiar bridge crew replaced by specialists, some borrowed from Cascadia, on duplicate scan stations. The only familiar face was Master Sergeant Pitt, who’d asked permission to observe here. Major Douglas had elected to observe from the bridge, at Hugh Pritang’s invitation.
As scans cleared from downjump turbulence, ship icons appeared, most—with wide uncertainty bars—clustered near the fourth planet and its shipyards. Until they had more information, all the icons were neutral yellow. Behind Vanguard, more and more of Ky’s fleet dropped out, their two stealthed observation ships tucked neatly between larger vessels. Each ship reported in, and a broad vee of green icons built behind her. They had kept excellent formation; Ky transmitted congratulations to all of them by shipboard ansible, then turned to the communications officer.
“Report our arrival to Cascadia.”
He shook his head. “We’re not getting an ansible signal, Admiral.”
Ky looked at him. “No system ansible at all?”
“Nothing. I’ve pinged it…we wouldn’t get a reply to that within a couple of hours if the booster tech is down, but I’m thinking it’s something else. I can use the shipboard—”
“First IDs coming up,” one of the scan techs reported. “Uh-oh. Blueridge is a red-tag, right?”
“They beat us to it,” Ky said. “Use our onboard ansible; report that to Cascadia.” That leisurely visit with the Mackensee commanders, that trip back to Cascadia, the time necessary to transfer ansibles from Vanguard to the other privateers, to install the CCC in Vanguard, all had given the enemy time to strike its logical target. They’d warned Moray, but a few tendays wasn’t time enough to develop a plan against a massive invasion, especially when the enemy had onboard ansibles.
“If they have the ships—” someone muttered.
“All right…steady on. We need to know more before we charge in.” Across the screen, icons flared to red. Some remained yellow. Those could be neutrals, or natives, or enemy not yet identified. The new military-grade battle analysis computer, a gift from Cascadia, should give them better real-time data on the flow of battle…including the location and identification of outlying ships, presented in a 3-D holographic display. Ky wasn’t sure she trusted it; the unit had been purpose-built to work with onboard ansible data as well as conventional scan data, and they’d had so little time to test it—
“Anomaly here,” the scan tech pointed. “Mass consistent with small ship. Could be stealthed observer.”
“Probably is,” Ky said. “What’re we picking up on communications channels?”
“We’ve got just one ansible tuned to the pirates’ channel set. A lot of chatter, can’t understand it. Lightspeed com will be old—”
Lightspeed would be, most likely, Moray’s own defense services. “Capture all we can, put someone on it for history.” History might tell her how this had happened. She’d warned Moray Defense, before her fleet left Cascadia, to be alert for attacks; they’d said they were prepared, but they had refused to release most of their plans until she arrived. Prudent, but now another complication. She could not coordinate with them without knowing specifics.
She glanced at Yamini and Douglas, tiny icons on her command chair display. “Recommendations?” They had insisted on preparing two battle plans for a similar situation: arriving to find the pirates either already in possession of the yards, or just arrived in the system.
“More data,” Yamini said.
“I’d say plan C-one, in ten minutes, to collect a little more data,” Douglas said.
“Two hours,” Yamini said. “We’ll have a better picture—”
“In two hours, it could be over,” Douglas said. “I interpret the present ship positions as indicating combat ongoing for at least four hours. Already, microjumping into position puts us at risk of weapons tracks. As well, if they have stealthed observers, as we think, the pirates now know where we are; if we sit here—”
Ky nodded. Space congested rapidly as a battle progressed, filling with the lethal detritus that included ordnance, fragments of blown ships and other structures…
“C-one, but twenty minutes,” she said. “Preceded by a two-light-minute dispersal jump…” If any of the pirate ships weren’t fully engaged in the battle, if Turek had a reserve, she needed to get her force into unpredictable motion quickly. It would make recombination more difficult, but not beyond her captains’ abilities. The real problem—the one no one mentioned as the ships jumped on her order—was the possibility of jumping into the path of weapons fired hours before. “And we need to let Moray know who we are, even if they don’t get the word for hours.”
“The enemy can pick up that transmission.”
“With any luck, the enemy is busy at the moment. Use tight-beam, the ‘Snowflower’ set.”
The dispersal microjump ended; all ships reported in. Partrade, on Angelhair, had moved closest to Tobados Yards. “All the ships in the yard appear to be there still,” he said. “I should be within two hours of them.” A pause. “I…er…overjumped.”
“Forward your scan data,” Ky said. “Then all captains—use your new scan data to refine your microjump calibration. Last chance.”
The data poured in; the new battle analysis computer combined data from Angelhair, their own stealthed observer left back near the downjump exit, and all the other ships to produce a best guess with narrower uncertainty bars and the first movement cones. A debris field now blurred scan where the first contact had come. One Moray cluster—ten ships—was simply gone. Others were fragmented; without the system ansible, they could not communicate well enough to coordinate their actions. Maniples tried to hold together, within easy lightspeed communication, but this made them fatter targets for the enemy.
“He’s thrown a lot at them,” Douglas said. “We’ve got…forty-eight enemy icons, at least. If half those yellows turn red, we’re in for it.”
“We’ll be in for it worse if they get those warships,” Ky said. “Except for the Bissonet ships, he’s got the same kind of ships our privateers have, and he’s fought enough that they should also be showing structural problems by now.”
“Unless he picked up more military ships somewhere,” Douglas said. “But yeah, he needs more.”
“Coming up on twenty, Admiral,” someone said.
“Execute,” Ky said. “Then recalibrate.” It wouldn’t be as good as if they’d calibrated before the battle, but it should help reduce some of the inaccuracies.
Vanguard skipped and then returned to normal space; new data popped up on the screens. Now some thirty of the enemy ships hung less than a light-minute from the yard, their acceleration clearly marked on the trace, while eight were poised on the far side of the debris field.
“Got voice recordings, Admiral,” one of the communications techs said. “Moray Defense challenged an apparent official mission from the government that ordered the warships. Moray told them to halt and be inspected at an outer station. They must have thought they might be challenged, because that’s when Turek’s force attacked the nearest cluster. Other Moray Defense clusters responded to that area, but they came in singly—Moray’s lost half its on-duty clusters at this point.”
“Defeat in detail,” Yamini murmured. “And there’s nothing left to defend the yard; it’ll be over before the other half of their defense force realizes it’s started.”
“We have the local codes,” Ky said. “And they have our beacon IDs. Send our ships to their cluster stations, use lightspeed com to tell them what’s going on…”
“And tell them to do what?” Yamini asked. “Their doctrine would have them support the cluster under attack; that’s how the closest ones got hammered.”
“Tell them to stick with our ships—follow their orders—because otherwise they’re dead or useless.”
“Moray’s yelling for help—they’ve picked up our closest ships’ beacons…”
“Tell them we’re here, and we’ll engage shortly. Wait—what are those ships leaving the station?” Seventeen blips, none with working beacons, had lifted from the station an hour ago, in no particular formation. “Are they Moray-crewed, or what?”
“There’s a problem…a lot of radio chatter I don’t understand it all. Sabotage, they think, but also…some hotheads took some ships out to fight off the invaders, only the ships aren’t really commissioned.”
“Which is which?” Ky asked. Scan recognized the ships as large, some of them as armed, weapons hot. If those were the enemy…half her own ships were now dispersed to offer support and communications to surviving Moray clusters. Some of those were beginning to move together, following Ky’s battle plan.
“Eight have crew, they think. Not trained crew, though. Dockyard workers, riggers and the like. The others are under some kind of remote control.”
“Can they blow them from the station? How long ago did they undock?” Ky touched her own scan controls, enlarging and shrinking until she found the views she wanted, estimates of the ships’ velocity, acceleration, course.
“They don’t want to destroy them, they’re saying—those are brand-new warships, worth a fortune—”
“Idiots!” They could lose not just ships, but the station, the entire system, if the enemy got away with those ships. But her force was now engaged…some of it. Those ships weren’t her problem yet…even without proper beacon IDs, they were pinned on scan. Without working weapons systems, they could be blown anytime. More important to get Turek and his ships.
Tobados Yards
Lozar woke to the blare of emergency sirens, with Jari pulling at his arm. His head felt the size of a humri drum, and pounded like one, too.
“Waas goin’ on?” he muttered.
“What’s going on is that you and that bunch of unbeliever ruffians you drink with came in staggering drunk last night…you went out again after the betrothal dinner…and now there’s an emergency—”
“My head hurts—”
“I hope it bursts,” Jari said.
He peered up at her. She looked really angry, not mild and forgiving as a wife should.
“You disgraced the family. You brought those men home; you insisted they stay to dinner; if Pasandir breaks the betrothal it would not surprise me—”
“They were happy for me; they are my friends—”
“And you smelled of liquor even before the dinner began. How could you?” She looked ready to cry now. Jari crying had always melted his heart. “And they aren’t even believers! How can you call them friends?”
Lozar rolled over and pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. Pain lanced through his eyeballs. What had he drunk, after they headed out to celebrate? Something they called “shiny bock”? Why hadn’t he stuck to the same green Stellar Special he was used to?
“Hurry up,” Jari urged. “Whatever it is, it’s important.”
“I’m coming…” He tried to stand, staggered onto her; a hard elbow in the ribs finally got him upright. “I need a shower.”
“No time. The red lights are flashing.”
A serious emergency, then. He stumbled into the ’fresher, his stomach churning, and threw up a foul-smelling mess. He ran the water as hard as it would go, just to rinse off the smell, and put on the clothes Jari held out while still damp.
“Here,” she said, still grim-faced, holding out a bulb of black liquid. No need to ask if she’d sweetened it or put in the stomach-protecting powder: he’d have to drink it black and bitter as the regrets of a fool, which is what he felt like.
It ran down his throat in a fiery, acidic wave, shocking him more awake. He looked again at his wife, his wife whom he loved. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“You’re a good man, Lozar,” she said. “But you’re too easily led.” She sniffed. “Friends, indeed.”
They were friends, but he wasn’t going to argue. Not all the humods were bad people, the part of them that was people. It was only the nonhuman part that was bad.
He hurried out of the apartment and down the passage toward his emergency station, his head still pounding. What was going on? Around him, others hurried as well, just like in drills, but traffic thinned even as he neared dockside. His emergency station, across the construction arm from his workplace, served ships within days of launch.
“You look like you was run over by a cargo lift,” Gerry said. Gerry looked disgustingly fit, to Lozar’s gaze, only a little red around the eyes.
“How much did we drink?” Lozar asked.
“You,” David said, coming up on his other side. “The right question is how much did you drink, and the answer is, you tried to match us. You know you can’t do that, not without an implant to detox for you.”
“You need a tab,” Gerry said. “Here—” With a quick look around for any proctors, he unpeeled a tab and pushed it into Lozar’s hand.
“It’s not allowed,” Lo
zar began. Its little cloud of short-lived nannites was just another form of humodification, according to their cleric.
“It’s an emergency. What kind of god is it that won’t forgive you when it’s an emergency? C’mon, Lozar, we need you alert, and you ain’t within a kilometer of alert.”
Lozar palmed the tab into his mouth. He imagined he could feel the illicit little demons—they were, in the Law, the same as demons—crawling through his taste buds into his bloodstream. He shuddered. In moments, the sour taste in his mouth vanished; his stomach no longer burned; his vision sharpened.
“Did that have other—”
“Oh, just a little stimulant. No, I promise you, the nannies are short-timers. Gone in five minutes.”
“I have to pee,” Lozar said a minute or so later.
“And that’ll be all of it,” David promised.
The sirens stopped while he was in the crank; he came out to the mutter of low voices, the rustle of clothing and shuffle of feet on the decks.
“Phittanji! Over here!” His shift boss waved. “We need all you fellows without implants…”
Some scut work no doubt, something low-level for the supposedly handicapped pure humans. Lozar looked around for Gerry and David, but they were in another group now.
“This is an attack, not a drill,” his shift boss said. “Remember that broadcast? They want our ships—we think they’re trying to control them remotely, and we have to stop them. The first people we sent in collapsed—apparently there’s some kind of electronic attack aimed at cranial implants. You Miznarii don’t have to worry about that. We need you to get aboard and disable the controls.”
Lozar’s stomach clenched. He looked sideways. Simsan Attara, a member of his congregation, looked back, face shining with pride. Real humans were going to do what humods couldn’t…Miznarii were about to be the heroes, about to be recognized…
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