Velocity Weapon

by Megan E O'Keefe

  CHAPTER 48

  PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3543

  SURVIVING DAY FORTY WOULD BE SUPER

  Negassi’s tender love and care lasted only six hours until Sanda was hauled out of her cell to do her duty to save her skin. Negassi did the honors himself, either showing a remarkable amount of respect for Sanda’s position, or a remarkable lack of confidence in his crew’s abilities. She wasn’t sure which situation was worse.

  The command deck of the Empedocles was under rotation, but not enough to simulate Earth’s pull. Sanda shimmied down the ladder onto the deck and stumbled, her crutch slipping on the too-slick floor. Tomas gripped her shoulder, keeping her from going head over heel in front of the Icarion crew, but the second she was stable again he stepped away, hands held at ease against the small of his back, gaze tracking the dominant smartscreen display.

  He was the only one in the room who wasn’t looking at her, which she figured was more suspicious than not, but hell, what did she know? She wasn’t the spy. And maybe he really didn’t give a shit after all. Just because she wanted him to be on her side didn’t mean he was.

  She couldn’t really focus on Tomas, though, with all those Icarion eyes boring straight through her.

  “Return to service,” Negassi ordered, which must have been Icarion for Don’t you have work to do? because every last body on the deck snapped back to their tasks, working a little too fervently.

  “This way, Sergeant Greeve.” Negassi grabbed her upper arm and guided her to the command chair, the same style and make as the one dominating Bero’s bridge, and strapped her in. “We have prepared a statement for you to read.” He handed her a tablet, a short chunk of text pulled up on the screen. “Do not deviate from this message.”

  She scrolled through the text, internalizing the sterile feel of the words, the hard distance from emotion that Negassi required of her. Words like imperative and discretionary elimination peppered the statement. Bero would sniff it out as government-speak in an instant.

  “Is Bero meant to be aware I am speaking under duress?”

  “You are allowed to refuse.”

  “And if I do, you’ll space me and blast Bero out of the black.”

  “Correct.”

  “Well. So long as I know my options.”

  She leaned back in the chair, letting the cushions adjust to her shape, and reviewed the statement a second time. Bunch of bullshit, she thought. No friggin’ way was Bero coming back to save her hide. If he were half as clever as she thought he was, he’d hit the accelerator, or whatever he had, the second he received her message and fly for Ada, or straight out of this star system. He’d have a rough time, making it anywhere without human help on board, but it was better than returning to servitude. Or annihilation.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  “Preparing to broadcast,” a comms specialist toward the front of the deck said. “Nazca Cepko, please provide the priority band identity tag.”

  Sanda scowled as Tomas leaned over the specialist’s screen and jabbed in the series of numbers and letters that would allow them to beam a message straight to Bero. She had no doubt Bero had scrambled that tag from the original the second he’d jettisoned his crew, and that Tomas had gleaned the new tag before he’d called Biran. Those tags took time to reset. Even if Bero had thought to do so, his systems might not have made the switch yet. She was about to violate his trust one last time, forcing a pointless message on him that he didn’t want to hear.

  “Transmission is go,” the comms specialist said.

  Negassi nodded to her.

  Sanda took a breath and leaned forward, the tablet held low so she could read it as she spoke into the microphone embedded in the command chair.

  “Light of Berossus, this is Gunnery Sergeant Sanda Maram Greeve. I am contacting you from the bridge of the Empedocles, under command of General Negassi of the Free Republic of Icarion. It is imperative to Icarion security that you return to your makers at once. If you do not hail your intent to return, and begin maneuvers to reinforce that intent, within seventy-two hours, Icarion will confirm my crime of piracy and eliminate me. This discretionary elimination will be extended to yourself if you do not…”

  The plastic of the tablet squeaked as her grip tightened. What was she doing? Condemning Bero to have his brains scooped out? As much as she didn’t want him running rogue, as much as he pissed her off, she understood why he’d done what he did. Understood that he’d taken her out of fear and hidden the truth from her for the same reason. His crimes against her were many, but they weren’t worth a lobotomy.

  “Fuck it. They’re going to space me and decommission you anyway, Big B. Run. Just fucking ru—”

  Negassi yanked the tablet from her hand. “Cut the connection,” he barked, but the comms specialist was already on it, moving faster than Sanda could follow, trying to stop her words from bleeding out across space to Bero’s receptors. It was too late, they all knew it. Tightbeams were some of the fastest data transmissions out there. The second Sanda spoke, her words were already halfway to their destination.

  “You just read your death warrant,” Negassi said.

  She leaned back in the chair, lacing her fingers behind her head. “You expect me to believe I had any shot at surviving this?”

  “Arrest her.” Guards moved in on all sides, and she went dead weight as they manhandled her out of the command chair and half carried her to the ladder that led back up to the habs, and her cell. She tried to grab a look at Tomas, but he was turned away from her, shoulders hunched, deep in a quiet argument with the comms specialist.

  “Sir,” the comms specialist said, raising her voice. Tomas made a sharp gesture. Sanda pretended a stumble. The guards escorting her cursed as they fumbled to catch her and her crutch all at once.

  “Sir!” the specialist yelled.

  “What is it?” Negassi asked.

  “The tag Nazca Cepko entered, it’s familiar—”

  “Of course it is,” Tomas spoke quickly. “The Light is an Icarion vessel.”

  “It could be incorrect—”

  “Priority CamCast transmission incoming,” the ship’s modulated voice intoned over all of them. “Do you accept?”

  The bridge fell silent, everyone frozen in position. Negassi stepped toward the smartscreen, shoulders squared, chin tucked like he was getting ready to headbutt whoever annoyed him next. Preparing himself to face Bero. But, Sanda thought, Bero would have no reason to send video.

  “I accept. CamCast, both directions green.”

  “Affirmative,” the ship said.

  The screen blinked into an image. A man in the blue-grey FitFlex jumpsuits of Ada Prime stepped toward the camera, filling the forward screen of the bridge. A streak of fierce grey shot through his dark hair, and his cheeks had grown gaunt, but she’d know that disapproving frown and those sharp hazel eyes anywhere.

  “Little B!” Sanda called loud enough to be picked up by the ship’s mics. His gaze flicked toward her position, though he couldn’t possibly see her, and his frown grew grave.

  “Is this Empedocles?” Biran asked, though everyone involved knew the answer to that. Always a stickler for protocol, her little brother.

  “It is,” Negassi answered. “I am General Negassi, commander of this ship. Who am I addressing?”

  Biran clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward. “I am Biran Aventure Greeve, Speaker for the Keepers of Ada Prime. You have my sister. If you do not return her to me within the hour, I will be forced to engage your ship. And make no mistake, General Negassi. If you force my hand, I will make you pay for the inconvenience.”

  CHAPTER 49

  PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3543

  MAYBE ONE DAY A LEADER

  Biran stood on the bridge of the Taso, shaking. Even his teeth rattled. He’d kept himself together for the scant few seconds it had taken to accept Cepko’s call—had managed not to scream himself red at General Negassi—but now every fiber of his being was jelly held
together by little more than pure will.

  “Pilli, have you tagged the trajectory of The Light?” Lavaux asked from his captain’s seat.

  “Yes, sir, we’re tracking the ship, but it’s using cloaking technology we’re unfamiliar with. Now that it knows we’re watching, it’s doing everything it can to evade us.”

  “Fuck The Light,” Biran snapped. He stalked to Lavaux’s chair. “We’re pursuing the Empedocles. There’s no fucking way that General Negassi is going to space my sister. Pilli! Don’t lose that ship.”

  “Pilli.” Lavaux did not so much as raise his voice. “Maintain pursuit of The Light.”

  Biran gripped both armrests of Lavaux’s chair, looming over him as the man lounged. Lavaux raised one eyebrow, a little smile Biran would very much like to punch twitching up the corners of his lips. How quickly alliances could dissolve.

  “Lavaux. My sister has survived the last two-plus years aboard that ship. You want to find it, you’ll need her.”

  “An interesting angle, Speaker. But it occurs to me that all I need to understand The Light is The Light itself. Without your friend interfering, it should be easy enough to track that ship.”

  “Don’t let Sanda die,” he rasped.

  “I came out here for one thing: to find the weapon. I’ve found it. If we have time after recovering The Light, we will return for your sister.”

  “Negassi will space her before then!”

  “And you might very well join her if you don’t remember whose ship you’re on. I’ve condemned one Keeper already today. Do not make me condemn a second.”

  Biran swallowed, hard, clenching the arms of the chair so tight the plastic composite creaked. “Pilli,” he said over his shoulder, not taking his eyes from Lavaux’s. “How’s that tracking going?”

  “Sir?” her voice was hesitant.

  “Answer him,” Lavaux said.

  “The Light is proving evasive.”

  “What does that mean?” Biran pressed. “Exactly.”

  “We… can predict where it might be based on its previous trajectory and velocity.”

  “But you don’t know.”

  “No. We don’t know for certain. I’d predict sixty percent probability we have the location correct.”

  “Forty percent chance of failure,” Biran said to Lavaux. “Not a pleasant chance. Are you willing to take that risk?”

  “You do understand, Speaker Greeve, that this is the weapon that vaporized that asteroid? That bombarded Ada and nearly killed us all? The weapon that can—and will—kill us all if Icarion gets it back under control? If I abort pursuit, chance of exodus is one hundred percent. You and I both agree that is the wrong move for Prime to make. That it will only make the Icarion problem one for future generations.”

  “You’re going to lose it.” He breathed deeply, forcing himself not to raise his voice. “You are going to lose that weapon, and Sanda is going to die. And if she dies—so dies the only soul in the universe who could have helped you find The Light again.”

  “Fifty-four percent, sir,” Pilli said.

  Lavaux licked his lips. “What makes you so certain your sister can find The Light?”

  “She spent two years on that ship. My sister gets inside your head, Lavaux. She studies people—predicts their actions. That’s how she made it so far, so fast. If anyone knows where that ship is going, it’s not Negassi. And it’s not Pilli. It’s Sanda Greeve.”

  “Fifty-six percent, sir.”

  Lavaux stared at Biran with such intensity it made him flinch, though the man did not change his languid posture. “If you’re wrong, Speaker Greeve, if your sister fails us, then you’re responsible for the death of a civilization.”

  “I’m not wrong.”

  He’d lost his only friend. He wasn’t losing his sister. Not again.

  “You have one hour to command my ship and get her back.”

  “Pilli,” Biran said. “Set course for the Empedocles.”

  CHAPTER 50

  PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3543

  BROTHER, I’M COMING HOME

  Sanda punched the air and whooped. The guard holding her up by the shoulders gave her a shake and barked at the other guard to grab both her hands, but she didn’t care. Biran was here. She was, finally, going home.

  A sly smile crossed Biran’s face on the viewscreen. “And please, do not insult my intelligence by claiming not to have my sister. I hear her quite clearly.”

  “This is Icarion space,” Negassi said. “You are overstepping your bounds, Keeper.”

  “This is, at best, the edge of Icarion’s contested territory. We are at war, General, as you well know, and in times of war I think you’ll find it’s strength that wins disputes such as these. Your crew have, no doubt, been scanning the area and preparing possible engagement and exit strategies. I’m afraid you will find them all fruitless. You are outgunned. Any further debate is irrelevant. You have an hour. Prepare the transfer.”

  The screen went black.

  Pandemonium exploded on the bridge. The crew shouted, each trying to gain the attention of the general, each insisting they had the correct answer, the best evasive maneuver, the sharpest attack strategy. Sanda watched with a vague sense of horror. If any of her crew had been prone to the same style of outburst, she’d have hung them by their ankles out the airlock until they remembered a sense of decorum.

  “Enough,” Negassi said.

  They kept on squabbling.

  “Enough!” He slammed his fist on the back of the command chair. Silence, at last, pervaded. Every eye in the room turned to their red-faced general. “Prepare to dock with the Taso. Let’s get this farce over with so we can return to the real task at hand.”

  “Sir,” the comms specialist said.

  “What is it?”

  “Speaker Greeve’s CamCast came in on the same tag we used to tightbeam The Light, sir.”

  Tomas. Shit. Everyone’s head swiveled to stare at the Nazca, who said, “Oops?”

  “Arrest him,” Negassi ordered.

  He had nowhere to go, no plays left to make, so he shrugged and raised his hands to the sky in surrender. Sanda was having none of that.

  “I don’t think so, General. Cepko is walking out that airlock with me.”

  “You have no authority on this ship, Greeve.”

  “True, but I can kick up one hell of a fuss. You think my brother won’t point the big guns at you and ask nicely for you to hand over the man who saved his sister’s skin?”

  The milk-breathed adviser hovering at Negassi’s shoulder gripped his arm and leaned forward to speak low, but not so low that Sanda couldn’t overhear.

  “He’s Nazca, sir. We would not wish to anger their administrators by disposing of one of their agents. No doubt our superiors back home would understand we were forced to hand him over by Prime.”

  Negassi’s expression twisted with disdain. “You’re a foul coward, but you’re not wrong.” Negassi waved Tomas forward. “You will leave this ship with Greeve, but grievances will be filed with your superiors. You were hired to do a job, Nazca, and your organization does not take insubordination lightly.” He raised his voice to gain some cachet with his crew. “The Nazca lack the humanitarian laws we Icarions value. Your punishment at their hands will be worse than spacing you here, today.”

  “You’re too generous,” Tomas bowed his head to Negassi, whose lips curled into a faint snarl.

  “Get these two off my bridge. I have a call to make.”

  Negassi preceded them up the ladder and took a sharp turn away from the path Sanda and Tomas were being hustled down, his adviser tight on his heels. Sanda smirked after him, imagining him groveling to his superiors as he attempted to explain how he’d recovered, and lost, the only two people who knew anything about Bero’s whereabouts in the last… How long? She blinked, niggling hints finally catching up with her.

  Tomas had been looking for her, hired to track her down sometime after the bombardment and simultaneous attack
on the diplomatic convoy he’d mentioned. He couldn’t have been the first option, the Keepers would use their own agents first, then Biran… Biran had hired Tomas himself. Biran, who had been training to be a Keeper when she’d last seen him, however long ago. Biran, who most certainly hadn’t had a streak of grey hair and the power to order the destruction of an Icarion warship on his whim. Who hadn’t held one of the most prestigious positions within the Keepers—Speaker.

  Tomas had told her he’d been looking for her. He’d failed to mention for how long.

  She shot Tomas a look, but he was chatting amicably with his guard about the benefits of old-fashioned zip-tie cuffs over FitFlex carbon. Typical spy. Or typical Tomas. She really wasn’t sure what was training and what was personality with that man. Well. She was sure some things couldn’t possibly be training. Unless the Nazca gave some very thorough honeypot lessons.

  Without mag-boots, Sanda and Tomas had to cling to their captors to keep from drifting off. To dock, both ends of the airlocks needed to be spun down. They stopped at a triple-pass airlock and listened while the machinery outside extended a temporary human-sized tube, which connected the two ships for ease of passage. Metal squealed against metal, the ships complaining that they were being made to mate with their enemy. Just like the people who’d made them, the ships hadn’t been designed to get along.

  Negassi reappeared, the good Dr. Yu and milk-breath trailing behind—the doctor a little farther back than the other. Yu blinked rapidly, fingers twisting in the sleeves of her overcoat. Her throat bobbed as if she were trying to swallow something, and Sanda had a guess what that was: What about Bero?

  Tough luck for the doc. Sanda wasn’t about to spill anything she knew about Bero’s plans, and Tomas had already proven his particular stance on the matter.

  Green LEDs illuminated the top arch of the circular airlock. “Clear,” the guard holding Sanda’s forearm said.

  “Let’s get this over with.” Negassi waved his wristpad over the lockpad. The door swung outward, subtle pressure differences between the two ships blowing air back against Sanda.