by Nick Webb
“You’re . . . challenging me to a drinking contest?” he asked.
She was pretty. Damn. She was damn pretty. “Yup,” she said, simply. It was endearing, actually.
The bartender finished filling the two glasses and soon a small crowd of bar patrons pressed around them, gawking to see if the townie could actually outdrink the young visiting IDF captain.
“You want me to give you a countdown?” asked the bartender.
“Please,” he said. He cracked his knuckles and made a show of loosening up his neck. “Pretty girl like you getting mixed up with a guy like me? I was a fighter pilot, you know.”
“And?” she said, her lips pulled downward but with a twinkle in her eye.
“And fighter pilots, when they’re not piloting their fighters, are fighting other pilots for the last drop of moonshine in the ship’s storage bay.”
“You sure talk a lot for a guy who’s about to lose.”
He snorted, then motioned to the bartender and nodded. “Let’s do this then.”
“Ready? Three. Two. One. Drink!” the bartender yelled.
He grabbed his glass and raised it up so fast that a few drops sloshed onto his shirt.
She grabbed—not her glass, but his old mostly-finished glass. With one swallow, she downed it.
“Cash, please. Or direct transfer—name on the account is Reah Goldmeyer.”
The small crowd roared with laughter. He still had his mostly-full glass raised. She was looking at him, looking very much like she was making a monumental effort not to laugh.
Then she did laugh.
And it felt like the world changed.
“Tim Granger,” he said.
“I know,” she replied.
“Captain? One more q-jump to Earth. You awake?”
“Almost,” he said, blinking several times. He’d slumped over in his chair in the cockpit. His cheek felt wet, and he wiped the drool away with a sleeve.
“What exactly is our plan?”
The fog of sleep mostly receded, but the name refused to disappear. Reah. The woman in the picture in that Vestige office in Bern. Jasper said she’d died on Indira during the Second Swarm War. That was, what, thirty-one years ago?
“Plan. Right. Here’s what you’re going to do. Get on the horn to Danny Proctor. Don’t talk to him directly—he might be around someone we don’t want listening. Leave him a message. Ask him if he knows where our future passenger is. If he doesn’t know, I’m sure he’s in a position to find out. But his channel is almost assuredly being monitored—if not by the Findiri, then by some IDF intel wanker that Oppenheimer is over. So don’t use his name. Call him . . .”
He came up blank. He used to be good at this.
“Our mutual friend?”
“Funny. Way too obvious. No, just say you’re looking for your brother—you heard he was taking his summer vacation from classes at Yale. Heard he went to Bern. And then went missing during all the destruction a few days ago. You’re worried about him. He hasn’t contacted anyone and your mom is worried sick. Got it?”
He nodded slowly. “Brother, school at Yale, vacation, Bern, missing, mom worried sick, okay, got it.” His face looked far more worried than his tone implied.
“Good. You got this, son. Steady voice, sound concerned, but don’t overact it, okay? This is covert ops, not high school drama class.”
“Okay. I’m ready.” Jasper keyed a few things into the comm and searched through a few channels before finding the right one. “Here we go. Danny Proctor? This is your buddy Jasper. Look. You know my brother, right? He’s a student at Yale? He went on summer break last week, and, well, we haven’t heard from him. He said he was vacationing in Europe. Was planning to go to Bern at some point, but . . . well now we haven’t heard from him. Is there a chance you know where he is? My mom is frantic, given what happened to Bern and the battle and everything. Anyway, get back to me right away if you know anything. Got my old man here and he’s missing his cancer treatment to help me look and I want to get him home right away—you know how he is. Jasper out.”
Granger held a hand to his face. “You had one job.”
Jasper’s face was flush. “Sorry. I choked there at the end.”
He shook his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It’s probably fine. Just . . . leave the improvising to me, okay?”
“Okay.” Jasper took hold of the flight controls again and dialed in a few commands. “I’m going to put us into high orbit. That way we can make a quick getaway if we need to.”
“No. That’s suspicious. Take us down. Low orbit. That’ll make it faster to actually get to Qwerty’s location when we find him.”
Jasper nodded. He may have been easily flustered, but his handling of the corvette was solid. Granger looked out the viewport to his right and watched as they descended further into the gravity well of Earth, the thin blue line of atmosphere backlit by the quickly rising sun. Up ahead, near Yarbrough station, he could just make out a jumble of huge ships—what he supposed were the portion of the Findiri fleet stationed at Earth.
“Should I alter course? We’re going to go right underneath them.”
“Negative. Again, too suspicious. We have nothing to hide, right?”
“Right.”
The dashboard monitor lit up, and Danny’s face appeared. He was outside, standing in front of what looked like a few rows of—were those gravestones? “Danny here. What’s up, Jasper?”
Granger ducked down to make sure he wouldn’t appear in the video transmission, and Jasper flipped the camera on.
“Oh hey, Danny. Good to see you again. Been awhile, right?”
It had been exactly two days since they met. Granger shook his head and furiously mouthed, Leave the improvising to me!
“Sure has. So, about your brother. I have good news, and bad news.”
“Okay,” said Jasper. “Hit me.”
“The good news is that your brother never actually went to Bern. Cut his vacation short when the Findiri showed up.”
Jasper made a fairly good show of looking relieved. “Oh thank god. Mom’s gonna be thrilled. And . . . the bad news?”
Danny smirked. “The bad news is that they canceled the rest of summer break and classes are back in session. And the rest of his trip was non-refundable. Not only that, but some of his new professors really have it in for him—probably going to start sending their TAs after him any time now. He’s been holed up in the library studying, but now it seems like not even that’s enough and he’s got to urgently find a new place to study. That’s what he told me, at least. Seemed kinda bummed.”
“Can’t imagine why,” said Jasper. “Well, that’s a relief. Hey, thanks Danny. And don’t be a stranger—let’s connect when you’re back in town.”
“Absolutely, man. Hey, you brought your dad? Are you crazy? I thought pausing stage four cancer treatment was a big no-no?”
Granger wanted to groan. Jasper only shrugged. “He’s the crazy one, not me. Should have stayed home with mom. Parents. What are you gonna do?”
He had to hand it to Jasper—his acting, the phrasing, the tone—everything was perfectly natural. Like he actually believed the words. Maybe some improv covert ops really was in his future. Still, the extra information made him nervous.
“What indeed. Okay, man, I’ll talk to you later. Danny out.”
The transmission ended, and Granger breathed out a huge sigh. “Well. That went only slightly better than expected.”
“Sorry.”
He reached out and slapped Jasper’s shoulder. “No, kid, you did real good. Just leave—”
“—the improvising to you, yeah I know.”
“Sounds like Qwerty is in trouble. He’s still at Yale, holed up in the library, but I think Danny was trying to suggest that he needed to get out of there right away—all that stuff about the new professors sending their TAs after him.”
“Code for Findiri sending soldiers?”
Granger shrugged. “Pro
bably. He might be in imminent danger. Let’s get there asap.”
Jasper nodded. “I’ll punch in a course to New Haven. Hopefully we can be out of here within the hour.”
“Good.” Granger stood up and walked back to the lounge area, opened up the beverage unit and dialed in a coffee. Moments later a cup dropped into the slot and slowly filled with a fresh drip. “Want any?”
Jasper was silent.
“Jasper?”
“Sorry. It’s just that a few seconds after we changed course to Connecticut, one of the smaller Findiri ships and two fighters peeled off from their main fleet at Yarbrough station.”
He left the coffee where it was and returned to the cockpit. “Are they on an intercept course?”
“Not exactly, no. I mean they’re headed in the general direction of where we’re going. Could be a coincidence.”
Granger sat back down. “There are no coincidences, kid. Buckle up. This is going to be a hot extraction.”
CHAPTER TEN
Sol System
Earth
Freehold, New Jersey
East Coast Correctional Institute
“Adjutant, the prison warden confirms. The current prison population is sufficient for three days of the Director’s plan to compel the traitor to comply.” The sub-adjutant lowered his head slightly in the customary act of completion of an order.
Adjutant Varus, upon learning earlier in the morning of Director Talus’s plan to capture Granger, had nearly flown into a rage. It wasn’t that the plan wasn’t an effective one.
It’s that it was to the wrong end.
“Good. See that they’re transported to the UE executive office tower.”
“I obey, Adjutant.” His sub-adjutant, Nubo, started to leave the shuttle but paused at the hatch. “I hear word from other ships that many think as you do.”
“They think this because they are Findiri.”
“But Director Talus’s will is firm?”
The anger was building within him at the mention of the name. That being should never have taken the leadership of his people upon himself. That so many Adjutants sided with him was befuddling.
“It is. He thinks finding Granger is the key to success.”
“And you still think we should be hunting the Swarm ship that recently arrived?”
“It is our destiny, Sub-Adjutant Nubo. What will finding Granger do for us? Supposedly allow us to reset the genetic codes in the corporeal chambers? That was a worthy goal, up until the point we learned of the continued existence of the Swarm. Now it is a distraction.”
“I agree, Adjutant. As do many others.”
“Good. Deliver the message to the warden, and then return quickly. Our quarry at New Haven is waiting.”
The sub-adjutant left the shuttle again, and returned within minutes. “The warden will comply. The first shipment of prisoners will arrive at the Executive Office Tower within two hours.”
Varus looked at the shuttle pilot. A diminutive human with unkempt facial hair. He’d never seen facial hair before—it was a trait the Findiri lacked. And he was grateful. “Take us to New Haven. Yale University.”
“You’re the boss, boss.” The pilot punched some commands into the console and lifted the shuttle into the air. “Say, just wondering here. I’m happy to help and all, but do you think IDF is going to pay me? Can you arrange that?”
Varus blinked twice, and struggled to understand the meaning. “Pay?”
“Yeah. You see, private drivers and pilots like myself typically get money for our service.”
“Money.”
“Yeah. Money.”
Varus turned to his executive assistant. “Inquire about this pay when we return. If this is true, then arrange for the money to be transferred to the human.”
“Yes, Adjutant.”
“Pilot. What quantity of this money do you require?”
The pilot stumbled for words. “Uh, well, you know, now that I think about it, one . . . hundred thousand?”
“Nubo. One hundred thousand units of this money.”
The pilot made a strange expression with his face. A jubilant smile? “Thank you! If you ever need my services in the future, I’m at your disposal. Like, seriously, I’ll drop everything I’m doing.”
“Noted, pilot. Fly on.”
The shuttle sped along, barely getting above the highest clouds before descending again. He saw the coastline of the area called Connecticut, and soon they were angling to land at the University’s landing pad.
“Dammit, the spot’s already taken, Mr. Varus,” said the pilot.
“Taken? By what? Surely a landing pad can accommodate more than one shuttle.”
The pilot pointed out the viewport. “That’s no shuttle there. That’s a corvette. Taking up all four landing spots.”
“What is its designation?”
The human squinted at his computer console. “Transponder says its called the Legend, registered out of San Martin.”
Varus shook his head. “Very well. Land us in the courtyard.” He turned to Nubo. “Has the elite strike force arrived yet?”
The sub-adjutant glanced at his heads-up display on his wrist. “In two minutes, Adjutant.”
“When they arrive, instruct them to apprehend the conspirator at once. Target was in the library, but that may have changed in the past half hour.”
“Yes, Adjutant.”
“And ready your own energy weapons. If there’s something I’ve learned about humans in the past three days, its that they’re full of surprises.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Kiev Sector
Bellarus, high orbit
ISS Defiance
Bridge
“Commander Rice, I want a detailed scan of what’s left of that ship. Everything. Visible, IR, microwave, UV, gamma, neutron, meta-space, the works. I want to know what it’s made out of, where it was made, when, who piloted it, and what gum they were chewing when they died.” Commander Zivic was about to sit down in the captain’s chair when he noticed Sepulveda still there. Instead, he went over to the XO’s station to stand by Rice.
“Aye, sir,” Rice entered in some commands and pointed at the lieutenant at tactical. “You heard the man. I’ll handle meta-space, you handle the rest.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied.
Rice got to work on the scans, but as he did so he eyed Zivic. “You know, this could take a while. The analysis, at least. Might be easier if we could just go over there. The problem is the Defiance is meant to run on a just a handful of crew—we can’t exactly spare anyone.”
Zivic’s eyes lit up. “We can spare me.”
He started to walk toward the exit, but then stopped and glanced back at Rice. “Aren’t you . . . going to say something?”
Rice looked up in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“The ship’s commander is about to break an IDF regulation. Ranking officers not going into danger zones when junior officers would do in a pinch.”
Rice shrugged. “Well we’re not exactly IDF anymore now, are we? Besides,” he returned to his work, “I knew exactly what you’d say anyway.”
“Oh?”
“Something along the lines of, shove it.”
He was starting to really like Tim Rice, not just tolerate him. He turned back to the exit. “Smart man. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
The Defiance was such a small ship that the walk to the shuttle bay only took two minutes. His fighter was there, along with the ship’s small shuttle. He was tempted to suit up and take the fighter, itching for a firefight. “Come on, Batshit, that’s not why you’re here.” Instead he donned one of the vacuum suits in the shuttle bay’s locker and boarded the much smaller, but much more practical shuttle.
“Okay, bridge, I’m heading over. Keep an eye out for me—you never know when the separatists could return. Or, for that matter, the Swarm.”
Sepulveda’s voice came over the speaker as he revved up the engine. “Or, more likely, the Findiri.”
“Know something I don’t, Mr. President?” He eased the shuttle out of the bay and floated out into the sea of stars, the planet’s blue ocean far below.
“Well if I were still president, I’d be sending a delegation as fast as I could to both assess the situation, and to offer help and try to strengthen diplomatic ties. Win friends and influence people and all that. Be seen offering help. Curry influence with the powers that be on the surface. As we can see by the debris all around us, Bellarus is contested, to say the least. Expect the Findiri, UE, RC—hell, even the Chinese might show up.”
The former president was an incompetent boob, but at least he was a politically savvy incompetent boob. “Copy that. I’ll hurry.”
Before long he had sidled up to the destroyed starship, pulling even with one of the exposed decks near what he hoped was the bridge. He extended the shuttle’s emergency docking arm and latched onto the deck plate, which would at least keep the shuttle locked into place as he boarded the ship and looked for clues.
A few bloated bodies floated nearby as he made his way down the partly exposed corridor. There was no artificial gravity, so the magnetic boots of his vacuum suit clunked along the deck, making the process slower than it would have been.
“Okay, I think I lucked out. The bridge is just ahead, if I remember my Russian.” Ahead of him, the Russian word for bridge was printed on the wall next to heavy double doors. He could read it because right below, in the same font, was the word bridge. “I think this crew was bilingual. That is, I think they had both Russian speakers and English speakers on board.”
“That’s odd,” said Rice. “Never heard of such a thing.”
“Well a separatist militia might attract all types, I guess. And I can imagine the reason there’s so much political unrest on Bellarus is because it’s a mixed population where some might have ties to UE worlds, and some to RC worlds. Anyway,” he paused, and opened the panel next to the doors to expose the manual override, “I’m going in.” He glanced down at his handheld sensor. “No atmosphere behind the doors, so I assume everyone there is dead too.”