Space Rodeo

by Jenny Schwartz

  The neutral statement told Thelma volumes. She knew that the chief had insisted on sending a Galactic Justice agent to act as Max’s deputy—and to infiltrate the Lonesome. Max saying that the agent was a mercenary meant that this Carl Jameston had worked undercover, which meant that he was probably Covert Ops. “Couldn’t they send you someone better?”

  Max laughed, a quick cough of sound that expressed his frustration as much as humor.

  Thelma would bet that his neck and shoulder muscles were knotted with tension. After recent events, Covert Ops would be itching to learn the Lonesome’s secrets, and Max was equally determined to protect them.

  What Covert Ops couldn’t know was the quality of Max’s allies in that secret keeping. Lon and Harry were redoubtable.

  Their core secret was hidden within layers of other secrets.

  A couple of months ago, a first contact situation with aliens from another galaxy, the Kampia, had twisted to include the Lonesome and its crew. Afterwards, Thelma had spun the incident to minimize Max’s role. He was afraid his freedom to act as an Interstellar Sheriff would evaporate if news of his identity as President Smith’s son got out. So she’d made the Lonesome’s hosting of the Kampia an excuse to contrive her own freedom from the seven years of service that she’d owed Galactic Justice for her education. It had been a desperate ploy that had centered on the never-to-be-trusted Senator Gua. The wild chance had succeeded, which was why Thelma was no longer a deputy, but an independent and increasingly respected information broker.

  Dealing with the alien Kampia had been the easiest part of the affair. The Kampia had been overawed to meet Lon and Harry, treating them as beings to be worshiped. In the galaxy the Kampia came from, the raphus geodes that generated Lon and Harry’s sentient existence sparked an entirely different life form. Being energy feeders, the Kampia had recognized the raphus geodes’ energy signature no matter the body that contained it. Their talk of “Revered Ones” was why Nefertiti, the AI embedded in a Covert Ops spaceship, volunteered to go uncrewed through a Kampia-controlled wormhole to discover what else was known of the vanished people who’d left behind the geodes.

  The geodes were seeds of life, and that was one of the Lonesome’s most tightly guarded secrets. Harry would kill to keep it, and they all respected his duty to the specters of the past, who were his and Lon’s progenitors, and to the AIs of the present and the beings who would grow from the seeds in the future.

  Nefertiti had kept the secret of the raphus geodes from her Covert Ops colleagues, but they were suspicious. Then again, suspicion was their default setting.

  Now Max was having to deal with one of those sly spies aboard the Lonesome.

  “Poor you,” she said to him. And with irrepressible good humor because it was wonderful to be talking with him. “Want a kiss?”

  “You have no idea how much.”

  Even with the restrictions on their conversation that came with the suspicion that they were being monitored, Max’s mood improved after comm’ing with Thelma. He leaned back in his chair. “Lon, there’s an upside to all this. Thelma’s safely tucked away with the Navy.”

  “Very true.”

  The Navy hated Covert Ops, and had the resources and technology to oppose them.

  Max yawned and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “What do we have on the map?” When he lowered his hands, Lon had put the data map up on the viewscreen.

  Lon was in charge of collating, analyzing and presenting the data streaming in. The idea was to have a live map of trouble, or the potential for trouble, as it revealed itself in Max’s sheriff territory.

  To reach the Saloon Sector a traveler had to pass through the Reclamation Sector. The first point of contact would then likely be the first settled frontier planet of Mistral, which was in Sheriff Pang’s territory; as were the planet Moonshine, after which the sector was named, and the weapons dealing and mercenary headquarters planet, Tornado.

  Once through Sheriff Pang’s territory, you crossed into Max’s, with Sheriff Cayor’s territory above, and Sheriff Zajak’s below. The Saloon Sector was roughly, very roughly, a skinny diamond shape.

  Once in Max’s territory, most people headed for Zephyr, which was both a gorgeous and agriculturally successful planet, and the territory’s civic and financial hub. Max had his office on its spacedock.

  Keep going on a straight line and you’d end up outside Federation space in the Badstars, where the bandits hid. Beyond the Badstars and upward, was the wormhole Nefertiti had vanished through to visit the Kampia.

  “Regina called in trouble near Xlokk,” Max said. “Two false ship ID scans.”

  “Same two false IDs by three separate ships’ scans,” Lon clarified. The separate reports, filtered through Regina, made the data more reliable.

  Captain Regina Peric was an ex-Navy pilot and current courier. At the same time as the Navy established the perimeter for the Space Rodeo, they activated their reservists in the Saloon Sector. However, they then left them hanging in standby mode. That didn’t suit the kind of people who lived out on the frontier, so they’d turned to someone who would respect their skills and involve them: Max. Regina was the reservists’ point of contact with him.

  Max stared at the live map. “If the vessels sailing under false IDs were nearer the Badstars, I’d guess bandits. But Xlokk is nearly on the border with Pang’s territory.”

  “Maybe they’re slipping across into his territory,” Lon suggested. “Bandits are disorganized crime. But we know that at least one of the organized crime gangs from the Reclamation Sector has found a use for them.”

  “Elliot Keele.” Max glared at the map with its scattering of amber alert lights—potential trouble—and markers of allies. Most of the latter were in established sites: on starlanes (already patrolled by the Navy); at asteroid mining bases; or docked at planets or moon colonies.

  All of the Interstellar Sheriffs would have loved to arrest Elliot Keele, but the CEO of one of the major mercenary corporations in the Reclamation Sector was a wily opponent. After the Selene Massacre, the crime lord’s high-priced lawyers had successfully weaseled him out of responsibility for the atrocity. He and his corporation had been declared innocent by virtue of the “not proven” verdict available under Federation criminal law. Everyone knew he was guilty, but Keele was allowed to mingle with the Reclamation Sector’s social elite, the blood on his hands washed away by his money.

  Max had more personal reasons for hating the man. When ex-Senator Gua snarled for Thelma’s death, it was Keele’s connections that Gua had sent after Thelma and the Lonesome. Some of those connections had been bandits.

  “Keele has been quiet, hasn’t he?” Max mused. “I assumed he was lying low while he adjusted his strategies in light of his lost political sponsor.”

  Lon concurred. “Say what you will about Covert Ops, they acted to neutralize Senator Gua after she tried to kill us.”

  “I doubt it was our well-being they cared about. Gua put her ego and revenge against Thelma as a higher priority than rational action. At that point, a senator with close ties to organized crime became more threat than benefit to Covert Ops.”

  Harry leaned in the doorway. “They’ll be watching to see who Keele cozies up to next.”

  Max tapped the desk. “Lurking like the Anubis. Playing games.” He stopped himself. At a certain point, justifiable annoyance began to sound a whole lot like whining. “I’ll pass word to Regina for the reservists to stay silent about the false IDs, be on the watch for more, but not challenge the ships if they encounter them. Also, Lon, can you message Customs? We should share data on this one. It could be smugglers trying to use the distraction of the Space Rodeo to shift contraband.”

  Lon provided indispensable assistance, but keeping his presence on the Lonesome secret meant that Max had to be the identifiable contact for a range of communications. Strategic meetings like this one had to be brief if he was to keep up with the avalanche of messages queued for his personal
response. Max got back to work.

  Dealing with Carl Jafarov was low down on Max’s list of priorities, but two days later it had to be done.

  The Covert Ops agent wasn’t staging a hunger strike or anything similarly personally disabling. Instead, he zapped Lon’s surveillance system in an annoyingly regular fashion.

  Max considered it toddler-level attention-seeking behavior, although attacking Lon’s surveillance system demonstrated that the cyborg possessed significant technical skills.

  The problem was that Carl’s actions weren’t just irritating. They diverted too much of Lon’s attention from other important tasks. Carl’s efforts had to be redirected.

  The question was to what extent Carl would obey Max’s orders as sheriff versus pursuing Covert Ops’s agenda to infiltrate the Lonesome and learn its secrets. After discussing the situation with Lon and Harry, they concluded that a change in strategy with regard to their prisoner had benefits worth the risk involved.

  Lon alerted Max when Carl sat down for lunch. The bowl in front of the cyborg was the high-protein, bland energy porridge that Thelma called “goop”. It was the staple of food dispensers, capable of carrying different flavors. With it he had a mug of cocoa.

  The cyborg wasn’t eating or drinking as Max entered through the internal hatch. He’d noticed it opening and was intensely focused on it.

  Unfortunately for Carl, Harry had prepared for the cyborg to try and take advantage of the opening, particularly via an attempt at nano-infiltration. A portable decontamination unit was attached to the outside of the hatch and enclosed in an additional Faradox cage.

  Max walked over to the kitchen counter. He actually liked goop, but he wasn’t prepared to eat with Carl. That would send the wrong message. Norms of hospitality and welcome were invoked if you ate together.

  Besides, Carl didn’t seem interested in lunch. He rose slowly. Like Max, he wore a utility suit. He had his boots on. He was ready to move anywhere, fast. “I thought you’d forgotten me.”

  “Hardly.”

  Carl took a step forward. “You’ve proven that I’m not wanted here and that you can corral me, but having me stare at speeding spaceships is a stupid use of resources. You’re busy. Let me help. And before you say no, I’ll come clean. I know that you have an AI embedded on the Lonesome.”

  Max kept his expression and posture unchanged. If his heartrate picked up a fraction, it could be explained as resulting from annoyance.

  The cyborg couldn’t know that Lon was onboard. The AI had executed an elaborate ploy years before Max boarded the Lonesome with the sole purpose of creating a believable version of reality in which Lon was elsewhere. In short, Carl Jafarov was fishing.

  Covert Ops was fishing—and somewhere out there, the Anubis lurked.

  Still, Lon’s existence embedded in the Lonesome was a secret Lon was willing to give up. As with all AIs, he was legally recognized as a person. He had a right to free action, and he’d chosen to remain with the Lonesome and Max. But by hiding Lon’s presence, that secret distracted from others; like Harry’s presence.

  Apart from the other AIs, no one knew that Harry was embedded in a mech body or that he was in the Saloon Sector. He was one of the earliest AIs and had ducked out of sight long ago. His mission required it. He protected the largest cache of raphus geodes in the galaxy. There were rumors of its existence, and Max and Harry were resolved that those stories remained unconfirmed.

  “You can believe what you want,” Max said to Carl. “I’m here in person because I do have other work for you.”

  “Thank the hells.”

  “What can you tell me about your cyborg enhancements?”

  Carl froze. When he moved again, he embodied a different personality. The impudent mercenary was replaced by a calculating, formidable soldier. “So you do have an AI onboard.”

  “I’ve encountered a cyborg before. I now take precautions.”

  Carl stood straight. He and Max looked evenly matched, but that was deceiving. As a cyborg, he could crush Max. Except that this was the Lonesome. Lon had taken precautions, and Harry was close by. “That was nearly twenty years ago. You were a kid. There were aspects to the episode that you couldn’t begin to guess at.”

  That Covert Ops had shared his personal history with their cyborg agent was to be expected, but that made it no less enraging. Max locked down his emotions. “It was the first time I saw someone die. That sort of memory remains vivid. Believe me, I comprehended the key aspects to the episode.” His emphasis mocked Carl’s word choice.

  “You see me as a threat.” Carl sat down at the kitchen table. If he thought to minimize his threat status, Max wasn’t fooled. “Keeping me locked up serves no purpose.”

  “You’re wrong. The Chief for the Interstellar Sheriff Service in the Reclamation and Saloon Sectors issued a direct order. I had to accept a deputy, and house them onboard the Lonesome. You. Failure to do so would mean the immediate termination of my employment contract. Now is not the time to leave my territory without a sheriff or with a new sheriff attempting to get up to speed on its idiosyncrasies. So I accepted you onboard, and with you in here.” Max nodded at the closed hatch. “You can’t cause trouble and I’m meeting Chief Kanu’s order.”

  “Not the spirit of it.”

  Max showed his teeth in an unpleasant grin. “That’s a problem for after the Space Rodeo”

  “It’s not.” Carl held his gaze. “The Anubis expects to hear from me. They’ll give you a few days, but then they’ll come knocking.”

  Max leaned back against the counter, genuinely amused at the arrogance of Covert Ops. “They can’t knock,” lock and board, “if they can’t find us.”

  Stirred on by the stealth capability of Nefertiti’s ship, Lon had upgraded the Lonesome. Harry had worked on improving its speed. The Lonesome was constructed to Lon’s unique design with a spherical physical shield enclosing the cube of actual living, engineering and storage space. The latter included weapons. The Lonesome was not an easy target. Bandits had learned that truth the hard way. For some, it had been the last thing they’d learned.

  Carl frowned, the crease between his brows seemed more one of puzzlement than of anger or fear. “And how will you avoid your chief’s direct order to make yourself available to Covert Ops?”

  “I won’t have to. Covert Ops would never admit to a mere sheriff, even the chief, that they’d lost the Lonesome. Your collective arrogance works to my benefit. For once.”

  Carl stared at his hands, flattened on the table. He picked up his mug and drank some cocoa. In effect, he conceded Max the point.

  “All of that said.” Max changed the topic. “I do intend to make use of you as more than cargo.”

  “So kind,” Carl muttered into his mug. He put it down and dragged the bowl of goop to him.

  Max pulled up a chair. Sitting at the table together signaled the changed dynamic. They weren’t allies, but Max intended to work with the Covert Ops agent. “I won’t ask you about your cyborg enhancements, and you accept that I’m keeping my secrets, as well. Or don’t.” He tapped the table. “What do you know about Elliot Keele?”

  Thelma’s second dive in the Space Rodeo flung the Otua significantly further than the first, and without the dual time conundrum. Better minds than hers were trying to piece together what it all meant for explaining comet helices.

  Not all the Hwicce personnel were as obnoxious as the two she’d tangled with in the mess. The best were dedicated scientists, passionate about their research. The difficulty was finding them to talk to. They seldom took advantage of the mess or gym for their downtime, but when they did, Thelma had some enlightening discussions.

  “So this spar of the helix shattered closer to the geo-ladder than to the infinity one?” She tried to question the Navy researcher debriefing her.

  Unfortunately, the only questions he cared about were his own. “No physical signs of strain. Mentally…”

  “I solved the puzzles in the recommende
d timeframe,” Thelma said.

  “And you retain your sense of curiosity.” The researcher made a note.

  Thelma wondered if she’d imagined his slight smirk.

  Back on the Ohana, she found Jerome fussing over a holographic image of the Otua’s design. Despite her lack of urselvian ability to scent emotions, she could detect Jerome’s anxiety.

  “The turbulence breaker hesitates,” one of his foster siblings informed her. “I don’t understand what that means, and stars forbid Jerome take the time to explain anything.” The latter comment was bitingly meant for Jerome—who ignored it. “One thing is clear, the Otua is not going out again until the problem is fixed.”

  That statement, Jerome did hear. “It won’t fail.”

  “It’s been flagged, Jer. The Navy saw—”

  “Those twerps—”

  Five more foster siblings burst in. They must have been eavesdropping. “No, Jerome! We are within a year of proving the Otua. We are not jeopardizing it just before success because you get stubborn.”

  The sort of verbal brawl that Thelma had been wont to indulge in with her brothers engulfed the workshop, and drew in the remaining six urselves on the Ohana. Thelma retreated to a side bench.

  Details on the specific nature of the problem the Navy had identified were slowly extracted from Jerome, in between his expostulations that the Navy and his siblings were blockheads. Then came nailing Jerome down to how the problem could be fixed.

  “So it’s not actually too bad,” one of the siblings concluded.

  Jerome howled.

  He got an unsympathetic slap on the back. “You said you can fix it in two weeks. We add another week or two onto that. The timing works for us.”

  “How?” the shortest of the siblings asked.

  Jerome was pouting, snub nose wrinkled, stubby arms folded.

  The sibling with solutions turned apologetically to Thelma. “We announce that testing with an organic sentient has been successfully concluded. More rigorous testing will occur after the Navy opens the Space Rodeo to uncrewed dives.”