Year of the Child

by R L Dean

  Tetsuya clipped his helmet on a strap inside the airlock and haltingly made his way through the hatch. As he started to pass, James added, "And, let me explain something, lieutenant. This crew is the best thing that's ever happened to me. If you want to do something more than talk ... well ... I won't be able to let you leave."

  In his time as a cop Tetsuya had his share of run-ins with thugs, local yakuza, and nutcases— the kind of people that didn't care what a badge or gun meant. Hayden James didn't radiate the cruel spirit of a gangster, nor did he have the glint of enlightenment found in the eyes of a cranked up mental case— but he was no less dangerous.

  He gave another stiff nod and James tucked the pistol he was carrying behind his back and motioned for him to continue on down the corridor. At the T intersection he directed him to go up. When he reached the hatch he looked to James for confirmation. The man nodded at him, and Tetsuya tapped the control pad. When the hatch opened he slowly pulled himself out of the access tube onto the Flight deck.

  A man with his back to him was floating near the cockpit. By the color of his hair and skin Tetsuya knew he was Middleton. The man in the cockpit would be Yuri Petrov.

  "... high decel into orbit. Almost thirty individual transponder codes," Petrov was saying. "There is a lot of comm traffic between them and the Orion ships."

  Middleton glanced back over his shoulder, then turned to face Tetsuya, he was frowning.

  "Says he's just here to talk," James said, pulling himself out of the tube behind Tetsuya.

  "This has turned into a bad time, detective," Middleton said, watching him.

  "Right. Look, I just want to know," Tetsuya started. "You found Misaki ... Misaki Iriyama ... on-board the pirate ship. Is that right?"

  Middleton's eyes widen and he stared in silence. As the quiet lengthened Tetsuya felt the hairs on back of his neck stand, like a six sense warning him that a predator was behind him— Haydon James.

  Petrov muttered something in Russian and started tapping hard at his screens.

  There was movement in the corner of his eye and Tetsuya turned to watch a small, Asian woman unstrap from a workstation seat. She had been so quiet, almost hidden by the workstation screens, that he hadn't noticed her.

  Misaki Iriyama, pretty, and as expressionless as Itsumi, pulled herself out of the seat and set her magboots on the deck. She looked at him, and in that moment Tetsuya realized he was staring into the eyes of an engineering prodigy— the human element of the Pendleton case that could not be found within mere files on a desk. However impossible the forensics technician believed it was, he knew that this woman had edited the Pendleton's communication logs and the Sadie's crew manifest. Misaki had been covering her own tracks.

  "Detective ..." Middleton started, then stopped as Misaki went to her knees, dogeza style. Her hands perfectly placed, her posture correct.

  Petrov suddenly yelled in Russian, then in in rapid English he said, "There is problem."

  Middleton turned to the pilot and looked at his screen. "What is it?"

  "The UNSEC ships are starting to spread out," Petrov told him.

  James came out from behind Tetsuya and releasing his magboots from the deck he pulled himself to a big terminal in the center of the deck. Misaki had looked up from her bow, and now stood— still looking at him.

  "This is an interdiction fleet," James said, looking at the terminal's screen. "They're locking the system down."

  Middleton whirled on Tetsuya, and asked loudly, "Do you know anything about this?"

  "What?" Tetsuya asked. "No ..."

  "Incoming message, UNSEC priority," Petrov said, then tapped his console.

  "All ships in Jupiter orbit, this is Marshal Katherine Comica Brooks. Pursuant to the UN Accords, article one-six-zero-one of the Emergency Powers Act, I hereby order all ships to cease activities and return to Ganymede Base for inspection. I repeat, all ships return to Ganymede Base. Failure to comply will be considered an act of terrorism, and punishable by the Conventions of War."

  "What is this about?" Middleton demanded.

  A low thunk sounded from the bulkheads, and Petrov said, "The Biscotti is releasing its vestibule. Message ..."

  "Tell Taka he's on his own, we're not sticking around."

  It was Alan speaking, Cridal was in the background yelling that they had to leave right freaking now.

  "They are pulling away," Petrov added, then turned in his seat to look at Tetsuya. "Your friends have left."

  Middleton's face made the transition from nervous, to fear, to anger. "Why are you here!"

  As Tetsuya opened his mouth to answer— to try and make them understand he had nothing to do with the UNSEC fleet— he froze as a faint sound caught his ear. A special sound— an alert. He felt the breath go out of him as he grabbed at the leg pocket of the vac-suit and struggled to pull his handcomm free. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed James turned from the terminal and take a step toward him. He ignored him, yanking the handcomm out and staring at it.

  Tetsuya licked his lips and looked from the handcomm to Middleton. "Can ... can you take me to A-forty?" His voice was trembling.

  Middleton's eyebrows went up. Everyone was staring at him.

  "Please," he said. "It's my daughter ... she ran away, but now she's at station A-forty."

  James blinked, and shook his head. "Seriously? You people need parenting classes."

  As they stared at him Misaki slipped back into the workstation's seat, then said quietly, "We can't stay here."

  James rubbed his forehead like he had a headache. "She's right, boss. This place is a bust. Apex owes us for the argon, and whatever that marshal is doing here could take weeks. We might be able to find a hauler at A-forty."

  Middleton's jaw clenched, but he turned to Petrov and asked, "Can you get us out of here?"

  The Russian pilot muttered, then turned back to the screen. "Get strapped in."

  A wave of relief swept over Tetsuya. The weight that had been growing for months was suddenly lifted from his chest, and he could breathe again. He was going to get Kaori.

  41 - JJ

  As soon as the Orion Security Chief set the shuttle down Reinhardt and her lackey, Kirkendorf, and Lieutenant Governor Jung stood and put their helmets on. Reinhardt's repeated urgings of the impending arrival of the UNSEC interdiction fleet cut short, and no doubt continued on a private channel as soon as their helmets were sealed. When the three of them exited the shuttle, Jamala refused to be left in the rear, she forcible made herself fourth in the line at the airlock. If the Vanguard personnel had something to say about it, they didn't.

  When she cycled through and hopped from the shuttle's rungs to the Landing Zone pavement, Reinhardt was walking away, heading toward the terminal, and Kirkendorf was already opening the exterior cargo hatch to the shuttle. She looked around. No one was talking on the open channel, probably to limit the flow of information to her, and the only sound in her helmet was her own breathing. It gave the whole scene before her an eerie feel ... shuttles and mining ships standing in cold silence, no movement except the people around her.

  The Vanguard personnel moved quickly when the cargo hatch opened and Jamala felt something between frustration and disbelief as they started unloading the crates containing the artifacts— the weapons— they recovered from the wrecked ship. She still hadn't heard back from the Colonel and could do nothing but observe as the crates were unloaded and hauled across the pavement to the Martian courier— Jung himself physically getting involved in the effort.

  She stood staring at them, boiling in the absence of orders and action. It wasn't until the corpses 'Bob' and 'Mary', that's what she dubbed them, were loaded onto the courier and she saw Jung raise a hand to Kirkendorf that she realized they were about to leave. No one had bothered to switch over and tell her. She cussed and headed to the courier's airlock.

  Once aboard she had no choice but to head to cabin she shared with Bascom and strap in her rack's webbing, but she lingered
for a few minutes in the courier's central corridor for reasons that she couldn't fully explain. Every nerve in her body wanting to do something ... anything ... to stop Jung from taking weapons back to Mars. Because, for all the pretense of scientific study, deep down Jamala knew that the weapons they took would make their way into the hands of the FMN. Why take guns if they weren't going to be used? As she turned to the cabin she saw Jung standing in the hatchway to the Flight deck and heard Frank's voice.

  "... about twenty drive signatures. They'll be in a position to stop us in thirty ... forty ... minutes max. We need to get off the ground and lined up for burn, now."

  So the fleet was almost here.

  "We should wait until they get here," Jamala found herself saying. "See what they say."

  Jung turned to look over his shoulder at her, said nothing, then turned back to Frank. "Let's go."

  Jamala felt her face grow hot. They were going to get away with it, and all she could do was observe.

  * * *

  In retrospect she had traded the feeling of uselessness that came with light duty, for the feeling of uselessness that came with not being able to stop something that she knew was wrong. Lying in her rack, secure in the webbing and feeling the vibration running through hull as the courier's engines were run up, Jamala's thoughts drifted back to the barracks. What am I doing here? She asked herself. Her place was back at the office, reading reports and being seen around the barracks, until her leg healed and she could run PT drills and lead field training exercises again. What are those knuckleheads doing while I'm not there?

  Also, if she were there now she could at least support the Colonel as he waited for the Tribunal's decision on a court-martial. She inhaled sharply, maybe that's the reason he hadn't responded ... General Hague had relieved him of command. Depressing thoughts, thankfully drowned out in the pilot's voice from the overhead, one last warning before the courier lifted, and it was a short one.

  "I don't know why you're so against us taking the artifacts back to Mars," Bascom suddenly said from her own rack. The woman was reading something on her handcomm, and Jamala had been so focused on reading the inside of her own head that she had all but forgotten the other woman's presence in the cabin. "They're scientific treasures," she went on. "Mars could benefit from the research alone."

  "Why the guns?" Jamala asked.

  Bascom snapped at her. "Every nation in history has studied weapons, how they are made ..."

  "And how to use them," Jamala finished for her.

  "The Lieutenant Governor is not a terrorist," Bascom said, hard. "If that's what you're implying, again."

  Jamala clamped her mouth shut, the g force was increasing, and Bascom was a Martian. It was an argument that would only make her mad. The courier turned and her weight shifted, they were picking up speed.

  "We are lining out for hard burn in about ten minutes," Frank's trained, calming, voice said from the overhead. "Stay secure."

  Right on the heels of his announcement her handcomm beeped ... the Colonel ... it had to be! Jamala wove her hand into the webbing over her pocket, fighting it and the increasing g. When she freed the handcomm and looked at it something shifted in the pit of her stomach that had nothing to do with heavy thrust. It wasn't a message from the Colonel, it was an incoming call, bearing the UNSEC logo. Her focus narrowed and she tapped the handcomm.

  "This is Sergeant Jenkins," she said.

  A hard faced woman with short, iron gray hair and bright eyes stared back at her from a heavily cushioned crash seat. The screen was vibrating and something loose was squeaking. "Sergeant Jenkins, I am Marshal Brooks, aboard the Agamemnon."

  There was a fraction of a delay in the feed, time enough for Jamala's mouth to go dry. "Yes, ma'am?"

  "Colonel Compton has advised me that you are embedded in the Martian science team, is that still accurate?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Brooks' lips thinned for a moment. "Good, and are you currently aboard the Martian courier?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Excellent," Brooks said, her eyes shifting away for a moment before she continued. "One last question. I realize you may not have your service firearm on hand, but are you per chance armed?"

  "I am an infantrywoman, ma'am," Jamala answered, a bit too strong.

  Now the smile on the woman's face turned vulpine. "Let me lay it out for you quickly. I am out of position and cannot stop the courier from leaving the system. If it makes it back to Martian colonial territory ... well, politics will hold up the process of properly securing the weapons and technological artifacts that you informed the Colonel were aboard. I am ordering you to stop the courier by any means necessary. It cannot be allowed to leave."

  Jamala licked her lips. She had wanted orders ... a direction ... and now they settled like a stone in her gut. Colonel Compton would not have expected what Brooks was expecting of her, and Brooks had the look of someone that was quite capable of exceeding her own orders.

  "Do you understand your orders?" Brooks asked.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Very good, I await your positive response. Brooks, out."

  She stared at the blank screen. This was one of those career decisions that the Colonel talked to all the NCOs about during their evals. Well, that decision had been made long ago. Now, suddenly, and acutely, aware of the time ticking down until hard burn she shoved the handcomm back in her pocket— then saw Bascom staring at her, wide eyed, and halted. Across two meters they looked at each other, then Bascom unfroze and started lifting her handcomm, her thumb tapping on the screen repeatedly.

  Jamala grabbed the first buckle on her webbing and yanked it loose and started pulling on the next one. They were both fighting against the increasing gravity, and Jamala's greater strength and endurance won out. She pulled the last buckle loose and lunged across the distant, slapping at Bascom's handcomm— only to be thrown flat on the deck as her leg didn't go the way she told it to and her boot tangled in the webbing.

  Bascom managed to tap the right button and began yelling. "Bill the sergeant is coming! She's going to stop Frank! Hurry ..."

  Cursing like she was in the naval branch, Jamala pushed herself up and batted Bascom's handcomm out of her hand, then got to her feet and staggered to the cabin hatch. The gravity made her feel twice her weight and working the control pad was like trying to solve a math puzzle. Finally, she got the hatch opened and pushed herself out into the corridor. Bascom started yelling again.

  She paused just outside the hatchway, pulled her pants leg up and freed her backup pistol from its holster. I'm running out of time, she thought. If Frank changed course, or his ten minutes were not exactly ten minutes, then she would be thrown or squashed, or both ... probably both. He said about ten minutes, Jamala, her little voice said. Why hadn't he said ten minutes, exactly? He was being ambiguous. He was a pilot, he should be exact. She was going to wind up as a pinball. What about the girls ... what about the girls ... it's okay, I told them this day might come, they can take care of themselves. What about Christopher, the man can't cut a straight two-by-four ... he's gone Jamala ... focus.

  The gravity begin to intensify, her leg was aching. If she made it back to Mars Greg, or Craig, or whatever his name was, was going to kill her. The courier shifted slightly and she slammed against the bulkhead. "Ahh," she growled. "Come on Jamala. You have your orders."

  Pushing herself off the bulkhead she fought her way forward, one slow step at a time. She reached the exercise machine ... it was just a few more meters ... long, heavy meters ... to the Flight deck's hatch. Suddenly the hatch to the cabin that Jung shared with the other two scientists flung up, the gravity forcing it back against the bulkhead on hissing hydraulics.

  Jung stood in the hatchway. He was red faced and sweating, but he was there. A handcomm was in one hand and his eyes flicked up to her.

  "Don't stop for anything, Frank." he said, then pushed himself out into the corridor to face her.

  "Sir, get out of my way
," she said. "Marshal Brooks has ordered me to stop this courier."

  "Stand down, sergeant," he replied. "This is a Martian state ship with civilians aboard."

  Jamala stared at the Lieutenant Governor for a moment. He was a mild man. In fact she had always taken him as a bit of a milksop. But, she had a tendency to think of all politicians as milksops. Against the gravity she raised her pistol. "Sir, don't make me do this."

  In a flash, a move so unexpected, Jung simply let go of his hold on the side of the hatch and the handhold on the opposite bulkhead, gravity did the rest. He wasn't a small man and he slammed into her full body at over twice his own weight.

  Her gun went off.

  42 - Alexandria

  "All ships in Jupiter orbit, this is Marshal Katherine Comica Brooks. Pursuant to the UN Accords, article one-six-zero-one of the Emergency Powers Act, I hereby order all ships to cease activities and return to Ganymede Base for inspection. I repeat, all ships return to Ganymede Base. Failure to comply will be considered an act of terrorism, and punishable by the Conventions of War."

  The inane message was on a loop. Alexandria went from irritated to rage by the third iteration.

  "Just cut it off!" She yelled at Strindberg and closed her eyes, squeezing the bridge of her nose. When Brooks' voice abruptly ended she opened her eyes and stared at the forward screen. Half showed the course lines of mining ships and the other half showed Ganymede near space— something flickered against the darkness, like Christmas tree lights and she blinked.

  "What just happened?" She asked Strindberg.

  The other woman glanced up from the terminal where she was seated and said, "The fleet, they flipped for hard decel." She tapped on her terminal and the bright pin pricks of light were suddenly tagged with transponder codes. "In another twenty minutes they'll swing around us, and one by one drop into orbit."

  Nothing to do but wait and watch the pieces on the board.

  Strindberg suddenly said, "Ma'am, the Martian courier reports they are returning to the Landing Zone ... "