“Uh.”
“For instance, what are the six orbital elements that must be calculated to determine orbit mathematically?” Gregor asked.
Her shoulders slumped.
“You do not recall the answer? Or you do not wish to engage in a quiz?”
“Semi-major axis, eccentricity, inclination, argument of periapsis, time of periapsis passage, celestial longitude of the ascending node, and no, I don’t wish to engage in a quiz.”
Gregor was pleased that she had answered correctly, but disappointed that she did not want to continue the discussion. “I am always content to share space in silence.”
“Good. Me too.”
He wasn’t sure whether that was more sarcasm or a truth. If truth, he found it encouraging. To be able to occupy oneself without the input of others always seemed an admirable quality. When she started reading her book, he chose a history of airplanes for himself, and two hours passed quite comfortably. At least he felt so. After a time, she closed her tablet and frowned over at him as if something had been agitating her for a while.
“All right, I have to ask.”
“Yes?” Gregor asked.
“What brought you to Mandrake Company? You don’t fit in with a bunch of brawny, gun-toting mercenaries. Not that there weren’t brawny, gun-toting soldiers in the military, but nobody expected a pilot officer to get dirty or be able to twist the head off another man.”
Gregor almost pointed out that he had never been required to twist off a head here, either, but he understood what she meant. He had killed here, not simply in aerial combat but in ground fighting. In Mandrake Company, everyone had to be able to defend him or herself, and it was less academic than it had been in the military, at least for the officers in the more cerebral non-combat units.
“I resigned my commission after GalCon destroyed Grenavine,” Gregor said. He was tempted to mention that his suspicions related to that attack had been the main reason he had tried to encourage Calendula to leave the academy and train in a civilian flight school, but he didn’t know if she remembered their brief discussions from back then.
“But you’re not Grenavinian.”
“I disagree with the notion that world-destroying is a viable solution to ending insurgency.” Gregor spread his hand, wishing he had a better way to share the sense of betrayal he had felt at being a part of an organization that had so little regard for plant, animal, and human life, but he was much better at describing the elements of an ion engine than at describing his feelings. Besides, he struggled to qualify why he would join a group of mercenaries, who also took lives, when he had refused to remain in the fleet. A matter of scale, he might argue, but when he was honest with himself, he admitted he hadn’t been able to give up flying. Real flying. In combat, pitting himself against another human being or a computer, and coming out ahead—knowing he and others would die if he didn’t. He had almost returned to the fleet to ask that his commission be reinstated, but then he had chanced into a meeting with Captain Mandrake and found his organization less deplorable than expected for mercenaries. “I spent a couple of years piloting star yachts for finance lords and freighters for those who wished they were finance lords, but it seemed a waste of my skills. I was not ready to retire.”
The comm beeped, cutting off whatever Calendula’s response might have been.
“Thatcher here,” Gregor said.
“Mandrake. Summers’s contact on the space station reports that he’s not at the meeting point, and he’s not answering his comm. He’s believed to still be down on the moon base, possibly in unfriendly hands.”
“I see. Abort the pickup?”
“I need you to find him, Thatcher. The company is already on the way to Icesphere, making plans to engage with the enemy. We’ll buy you the time you need, but don’t dawdle. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Gregor looked over at Calendula, wishing he had a couple of fighters along, as well. He could have taken them—the captain had offered—but he hadn’t wished to deny the rest of the company any manpower, given what they would be up against. It certainly hadn’t seemed necessary to take security for what had been described as a simple pickup at a neutral location.
“It sounds like more than my piloting skills are going to be tested today,” Calendula said.
“It may be so.” He could leave her in the shuttle—given the dubious nature of the base’s reputation, that might be wise—but she would have had basic weapons training back at the academy, and it might be useful to have another gun at his back.
“Who is this Summers we’re picking up, anyway? Nobody ever told me.”
“Admiral Douglas Summers. Have you heard of him?”
“Sounds familiar. Strategist?”
“Yes, a famous and well-respected GalCon fleet commander and master tactician. He originally came from Icesphere, the Malbakian continent, and he decided to take extended leave to come back and help his people thwart the invading Orenkan army.”
“Ah. So getting him could turn the tide down there? For the good guys? Or at least the side we’ve chosen to back?”
“Very likely.”
“Not to sound overly greedy and, er, mercenary, but is there any chance I’ll get a combat bonus for helping?” Calendula asked.
Her interest in money surprised him, or at least the fact that she was bringing it up. Would she be unwilling to go on the mission if there wasn’t a combat bonus? He found that slightly disappointing but reminded himself that mercenaries, even trainee mercenaries, did expect to be paid for risking their lives. It was possible some debt loomed over her head, requiring a payoff. Yes, given that she had mentioned money before, that seemed likely. Maybe he should have put finances on his checklist of things to talk with her about.
“I cannot guarantee that,” Gregor said, “but that generally happens when men are selected for special missions that end up being more dangerous than average duty.”
“Good. Let’s find this admiral, shall we?”
Chapter 4
Val lifted her hands and leaned back in the seat. “We’re clamped down, and the airlock tube is attached.” The moon’s gravity was negligible but enough to affect maneuvering, and she had found the docking task difficult. It hadn’t helped that Thatcher had watched her every move. He was probably already preparing a quiz on docking maneuvers to give her later.
“Good.” A soft rasp sounded, Thatcher removing his Mandrake Company patch from the shoulder of his jacket. “This shuttlecraft may be recognizable to those who track by serial numbers, but we shouldn’t blatantly announce our identity on the base, especially now that the mission has gone awry.”
“My comm-patch is in my pocket,” Val said. “I was waiting until I officially became a mercenary before presuming to wear it.” Presuming to wear it, that sounded plausible, right? Better than the excuse that she had been too busy to attach the patches to her clothes. “I imagine I look more like a random traveler than an elite mercenary, anyway, even with the pistol.”
Thatcher considered her briefly. “Yes.”
Val decided not to take that as an insult. She grabbed some ration bars and two compact laser pistols from her duffel, stuffing them in a purse, and stood by the airlock, expecting Thatcher to join her. But he remained at the controls, the computer system interface hovering in the air in front of him, his fingers swiping in and out of the hologram.
“The airlock is now keyed to us,” he said. “Nobody should be able to get in or start the craft except for us. I ran a security check, and no less than four separate computer entities on the base have noted our presence. One is the port master. The others are less open about their identities.”
“Sounds like what you’d expect from this place.” Val’s travels had never brought her to this moon—one had to deal with pirates and the like out here among the outer planets, and she’d rarely encountered employers who wanted to take such risks—but she’d heard plenty about the base. A few small companies ran th
e corporation owners’ association, and most of them weren’t legal businesses. “I think your idea to go in incognito is a good one, sir, though I’d guess people will peg you as someone’s officer no matter what you wear.”
Thatcher’s brows rose.
“You have that bright but expendable look about you.”
“I… see.” He looked like he wasn’t sure if it was a joke or not.
Maybe she shouldn’t be teasing him, especially if he didn’t recognize it as such. She felt more kindly disposed toward him since he had told her he left the fleet over Grenavine. A lot of people had objected to that atrocity, but not many had walked away from their safe, secure government jobs over it.
“I’m rarely sent out on independent missions, so my visage isn’t usually an issue,” Thatcher added.
Val wanted to explain that it was more the way he carried himself than his “visage,” but he finished programming the security system and stood up. He stuffed a laser knife and a couple of small devices into his jacket pockets. She didn’t get a good look, but thought one might be an electronic lock picker. Maybe he wouldn’t be as useless at snooping around a base as she would have guessed.
“Ready to depart?” he asked.
“After you, sir.”
Before either of them could head out, a bleep came from the console, demanding attention. Thatcher walked back and read a message that scrolled past.
“A golden alert has been placed on the base,” he announced. “All laser and projectile weapons must be left on board a person’s ship or checked into a locker in the console until departure.”
Val touched her purse. She hadn’t been that enthused about wandering around on the smarmy base before, and the idea of doing so without weapons enthused her even less. “Should we disobey?”
“The announcement promises there are scanners at the airlocks to ensure compliance. One might assume it’s a safety precaution since the planet below is engaged in war, but this alert was recently issued. Less than twelve hours ago.”
“Maybe our missing admiral has been taken by the station authorities, such as they are, and those authorities don’t want anyone trying to break him out.”
“Perhaps.” Thatcher removed his pistol and laser knife and tucked them in a storage compartment. “Or perhaps someone paid the station authorities to issue this alert.”
Val stuck her firearms back into her duffel and headed for the airlock with only her knife on her belt. Maybe Thatcher would consider hiring some brawny bodyguards to trail them around. A real mercenary might be too embarrassed to go for something like that, but she wouldn’t be.
An unmanned scanner at the end of the tube flashed red, then green as they walked out, their weapons check, presumably. They must have passed, because no squad of security guards or robots descended upon them.
Despite this being the hind teat of the system, there were over a dozen other ships docked, and numerous people walked through the concourse inside or slumped in the rows of rickety chairs. The scent of cinnamon pastries being baked wafted through the area, improving the usual smell of recycled air mixed with the scents of bodies of varying degrees of cleanliness. Thatcher stopped at an auto-pay station near the airlock tube entrance, held up his palm so the scanner could read the tiny chip inserted beneath the skin, then nodded that they could continue. Not the kind of station where parking was complimentary, it appeared.
“Any idea where to start looking?” Val started walking toward the main aisle, though she already had her eye on a bar on the other side of the concourse. That seemed as likely a place to get the station gossip as any.
“I have memorized a map of the facility and compiled a list of probable places where one might hide a hostage without drawing attention.” Thatcher unfolded his tablet, and his map and a list appeared in the air above it.
“That sounds like a no.”
He gave her a curious look. “I’ve narrowed countless options down to a mere thirty-two likely prospects.”
“How about we hold that for Plan B?” Val pointed at the bar. “Those who have been here a while may have heard something about someone important being held somewhere.”
“I hardly think we should be questioning strangers. Not only is it unlikely that they would share valuable information with us, but it may attract attention we would be wise to avoid.”
“I’ve done this sort of thing before.” She had been questioning random people on a station not two months earlier, trying to figure out why and how her brother had disappeared down a black hole. “Trust me. I won’t be obvious about it. And I think you’ll find that I can use my charms to get men to divulge information without feeling as if they’re being interrogated.”
“Your charms?”
He couldn’t truly be so dense—or so naive—to not understand what she meant, could he? Or did he simply not believe she had such talents?
“Yes, my charms. My left and right charms.” Val pointed at the individual breasts for emphasis before deciding that wasn’t an appropriate thing to emphasize with a commanding officer. Had she been out of the military for too long to go back to being the obedient—and respectful—cadet?
Thatcher looked at her chest, then back up to her eyes. “Very well, Calendula. We will attempt to narrow down the list by employing… your charms.”
He started toward the bar entrance with her, but she stopped him with a hand. “I’ll have better luck talking to people alone. Perhaps you can wait by the door. Or get a drink.” She almost choked, imagining what he might be like as a drunk. Instead of drooling and pawing over the nearest woman, he’d probably talk about his model spaceship collection. “Just pretend you don’t know me.”
“Very well.”
Val hustled to walk in several paces ahead of him, then removed her jacket, folded it over her arm, and slowed to a sultry sashay once she was inside. Well, it was a sashay, anyway. Sultry was in the eye of the beholder. There were other women in the bar wearing far less than she, including one dancing in a zero-gravity field above the bartender, so she couldn’t say that all eyes swung toward her. Still, there were five men for every woman in here, so she figured she could find someone to chat up.
She walked past three burly, scarred fellows in their early twenties, gauging them as trouble right off—the lewd perusal one gave her made Striker’s advances seem chaste. She slid into an empty seat next to a couple of grizzled men with potbellies and beards in need of trims. They had the pale complexions of long-time spacers and the physiques of freighter haulers. In short, they were both the kind of people she was comfortable talking with and the kind of people whom women usually ignored. The hopeless longing with which they watched the dancer gyrate verified that.
Feeling certain they would address her, Val ordered a steaming volcano and waited to see if her guess would prove right. She imagined she could feel Thatcher’s disapproving stare targeting her shoulder blades. Alcohol during duty hours? Inappropriate.
She glanced back to see if he had actually entered the bar. Ah, yes, he was standing by the door. And she didn’t need to imagine his eyes pointed in her direction; they were. Waiting to see if she messed up and found trouble? It probably irked him that she, the lowly cadet, had presumed to suggest an alternative, or a refinement, as she considered it, to his plan.
“How you doing, girlie?” the man on her right asked.
“Been better. Always get nervous doing jobs out here.”
“You run freight?”
“For Blazon, yes,” Val said, naming her last employer. It was a big corporation, and if these men were freighter pilots themselves, they would have heard of it.
“They don’t usually deal in the outer planets.”
She’d expected that statement and had an answer planned. “They ordered some parts from the shipyard.”
The man grunted—it didn’t sound skeptical. “Unless you’ve got some real hot cargo, you shouldn’t get anyone bothering your ship. You watch out for yourself, though. Not a re
al good place for a woman to wander alone.”
“I’ve heard that.” Val smiled and patted her knife. It wasn’t quite as intimidating as patting a laser pistol would have been, but he shrugged without questioning it. Good. Now that they had established a rapport of sorts, she searched for a way to subtly ask a few questions.
“Some men might take that as a challenge,” the fellow on her left said. He had been watching them talk out of the corner of his eye. “You’d best stay with someone if you’re going to visit any of the lower levels. Security isn’t too bad up here, though there are some elements preying on the weak.” He scowled over his shoulder at the three thugs she had dismissed earlier. They were playing pool at an old-fashioned wooden table with real ivory balls, each man swaggering around and swilling from a bottle between turns.
“Those elements are in every bar, aren’t they?” Val asked.
Both men chuckled.
“That they are,” the first speaker said. “I think she can take care of herself, Duffs.”
“Don’t ruin my moves, Zephyr. I was about to offer to be her native guide.”
“You’re not a native.”
“So? Don’t tell her that.”
Val snorted and waved toward a news feed playing in a corner of the room. The words weren’t being displayed and the sound was drowned out, so she had no idea what the anchor was talking about but said, “So long as I don’t end up kidnapped and stuffed in the bowels of the base, like that army officer.”
“Who’s that?” Zephyr asked.
But the other man, Duffs, lowered his voice and whispered, “You heard about that? I figured you just got here.”
“I came from the station.” Val waved upward to indicate the orbiting facility, the spot where she’d originally plotted her course. “Heard the lawmen talking about it just a couple of hours ago. Someone was going to be interviewed for the news.” She sipped from her drink to keep herself from rambling further. She didn’t want to get caught in a lie; she only wanted to explain how she might have stumbled across some secret.
“Huh, well, guess if I’d heard about it, it was bound to get out sooner or later.”
Trial and Temptation (Mandrake Company) Page 5