Enigma

by C. F. Bentley

  He smiled at Josephs and held up a thumb in acknowledgment.

  Seconds after belting in and putting all systems on ready he received the launch command from Pammy on the bridge of Champion.

  A quick loop around the station oriented the squadron to the jump point. The stream of debris and leaking energy showed clearly on all the sensor screens.

  “All ahead at two Gs, folks,” Jake ordered and pushed his fighter forward. His face flattened, and his chest felt too heavy for his lungs under the acceleration.

  He’d been absent too long. A lifetime ago, (was it only a year?) he’d endured three Gs for short periods without thinking about it. His work-outs in heavy G helped his endurance. Still, he didn’t think he could tolerate the stresses of a faster approach.

  Someone had to take up the rear to escort the slower tug. Might as well be him.

  Nine sleek fighters spread out around him.

  “Why so slow, General?” Josephs asked. “You getting too old and fat for this work?”

  “They may have promoted me to bureaucrat, but I can still outfly you youngsters. Next time you go out on patrol, I’ll put you through paces you’ve never dreamed of.” He discommed, hoping he hadn’t opened his mouth and stuck his foot in it up to his knee.

  Still, he missed the chatter and camaraderie among pilots.

  “Sensors show heat signatures fading. Life signs gone,” Pammy told him from her position aboard Champion’s bridge. “Engine emissions indicate this ship is Maril. Approach with caution. Arm all weapons. They may have followed the refugees from Zarith V.”

  “If they’re dead, Pammy, they can’t shoot us,” Jake snapped back.

  “It could be a booby trap. Arm all weapons, I repeat, arm all weapons.”

  “You heard the boss, folks. Arm your weapons,” Jake ordered. “But no one fires except on my command. Premature firing will cost you stripes and pay. This is a Maril ship, relatively intact. We want enough of it left to take it apart and study. Same goes for any bodies.”

  He didn’t want to think about the last Maril ship he’d shot to pieces. Granted it had only been a dummy flown on remote control by Pammy’s people. But the rest of the fleet thought a CSS spy had stolen it and brought it home for study. Jake had supposedly killed the spy as well.

  That was the night Major Jake Hannigan, pilot, died, choking on his own drunken vomit, and Lt. Colonel Jake Devlin, spy, was born.

  This ship was real. Excitement wiggled up from Jake’s belly. The CSS had never had an intact Maril ship before. They’d never had enough of a nav system to reverse engineer one and figure out how an entire fleet could operate with telepathic precision.

  Or was that avian flocking instincts?

  “Pammy,” Jake called the spymaster on a tight beam. “I’m betting we find Badger Metal crystals in the nav system.”

  “I don’t make sucker bets, Jake. Now watch that debris field for explosives as you approach. And just once play it safe and let a junior officer be first aboard.”

  “Ah, Pammy, you take all the fun out of it.”

  “You’re a general now, Jake. You are much more valuable sitting at a desk than flying that death trap.”

  In answer, Jake put on more speed.

  The long flight toward the jump point became more interesting as they closed the distance with the intruding ship. Radiation levels rose along with drifting obstacles that seemed to have erratic propulsion. The fighter to his low portside lost a wing sensor, and the tug had to veer off course to avoid a chunk of hull plating nearly as large as itself.

  As much as the delay annoyed Jake, he forced the squadron to slow to one-half G. He scanned his screens set at maximum magnification as well as a real-time view.

  “I can see the feathered markings, sir,” Josephs squeaked anxiously from the his high starboard tip. “They’re green and white. Never heard of that color scheme.”

  “Warships are all black and white,” Jake confirmed. “The size and lines suggest a light transport, maybe cargo, maybe troops. This thing could be filled with armed warriors with special insulation to mask heat signatures.”

  They slowed further until they ringed the ship sharing intel and sensor readings until Jake had a full 360 picture. “I detect no ships weapons,” Jake broadcast to his squadron as well as to Pammy back on the Champion. Numbers piled up on his data screens beside scans of the ship. Unfortunately, his equipment was shielded from heat scans and the audio of breathing. “You got anything interesting, Admiral Marella?”

  “Combination of sensors indicate nothing but two dead bodies. I suggest you tow it back to station before trying to enter.”

  “Negative on that. If the hold is full of troops with shielded heat signatures, I don’t want to take a chance on them invading my station. Josephs, lock on to the cockpit port and take a look inside.”

  “That’s a tricky maneuver, sir. Easier to go in through the hold.”

  “You not up to that tricky maneuver they taught us in basic?” Jake quipped. It was difficult on manual. Autopilot needed fine control of the programming. Pilots needed a dozen tries to match up the smaller hatches and docking clamps at a disorienting angle around the curve of a cockpit. The Maril ship’s curves were just enough different that lining up would prove… interesting.

  Jake had accomplished it in three back in the old days when he was hotshot pilot Major Hannigan. Back then, a cursory glance through the window showed it lined with explosives. He’d backed off in a hurry, one maneuver only. As he was supposed to.

  Now he needed to demonstrate to these young show-offs what real precision maneuvers were all about.

  “How about I lock on nose to nose and go EVA to peek inside?” Josephs countered.

  Jake chuckled. “Not advised. If they are armed, you’d make one fine and easy target.”

  “Back off, boy. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  “Show-off,” Pammy muttered on the private frequency.

  “That’s why you love me,” Jake returned. “Just don’t tell Laudae Sissy what an idiot I’m about to become.”

  “You know, General, this maneuver has only successfully been performed by a Major Hannigan?” Josephs added.

  In the background Pammy swallowed an outburst of laughter. Did this guy suspect that General Jake Devlin was the legendary Major Hannigan and that his “death” had been engineered by Pammy when she recruited him as a spy?

  “Too bad that guy died. Rumor has it he was crazier than a Harmonite on caffeine,” Josephs finished his thought.

  Jake had to swallow his splutter. Harmony had never allowed the importation of coffee or chocolate—too addictive, the original colonists claimed. Can’t control the masses if they have an addiction to feed. He’d watched Garrin, Lord Lukan’s son, run around at full speed for hours after imbibing his first candy bar, followed by a cappuccino. Sure he got a lot of detail work done for a couple of hours. Then he’d crashed and slept for twice that long in total exhaustion.

  “Watch and learn, boy,” Jake barked. Then he took a deep breath and focused on the real-time view of his objective. He flipped upside down in orientation to the Maril ship. His hands caressed the controls lovingly, coaxing them to follow his directions to the millimeter. Tiny increments of power, then shut off and coast. Slide closer, back off, adjust, slide in again.

  And . . . matchup! In five. Not as good as the old Jake. Still better than any of these children they called pilots these days.

  He had to close his eyes and allow his suit system to wick the sweat out of his eyes. Still breathing too raggedly, he secured the docking clamps.

  Shouts and whistles of triumph and congratulations cascaded over the comms. He even heard a bit of applause back in Control from Pammy. “I knew you still had it in you, Jake my boy. We’ll celebrate in my quarters when you get back.”

  “You never know, Pammy.” He’d find an excuse. Any excuse to keep from breaking his nightly date with Sissy.

  “Time to go see what’s happe
ning aboard that ship,” Jake muttered to himself. He ordered his ship to talk to the hatch of the other ship, neutralizing atmosphere and pressure between them.

  Surprisingly, the Maril vessel accepted his orders and didn’t require more than a few overrides to open.

  He drew a blaster as the hatches slid aside. Eerie silence greeted him. And darkness. No running lights inside or out. The cockpit looked dead.

  As dead as the Maril female with a cap of black feathers instead of hair locked in the arms of a human male. His skin and curly hair matched her black feathers, a New Numidian trader. Nothing else registered except their intimate, lovers’ embrace. They’d died together when they could not live together.

  He blinked back tears. Wondering if he and Sissy would have the courage to break free of the restrictions of their cultures and governments to run away together, face life or death together.

  A flashing light on the comm panel caught his attention. A message scrolled across the screen in both CSS standard and Maril.

  “Tell the lost one that Sanctuary can be found.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “You are looking for someone who is not here,” Sissy said to Jake. They stood partway up the spiral staircase watching computer and maintenance technicians file off the latest ship to arrive from CSS territory.

  Hover cams with both CSS and Harmony logos recorded the influx. Sissy had yet to actually see a member of the Media, only their ever-present recording devices.

  “I don’t see any competent workers for one.” Jake dismissed the mass of people with a gesture. At the same time he checked his comm.

  “You expect whoever you are looking for to appear in your comm?”

  Jake stifled a laugh and stuffed his hand in his pocket. The comm unit peeked above the line of his clothing, still readily available.

  “Then tell me, who is Admiral Pamela Marella?” She tried to keep her tone casual.

  “Um—she’s a high-ranking CSS official assigned here to oversee military concerns in the treaty negotiations.” He sneaked another peek at his comm unit, as if he could force an incoming call by will alone. “Where is the little bugger,” he said so quietly she had to strain to listen.

  “You’re lying about Admiral Marella.” Not about needing to find someone who eluded his troops. “Military supervision of the treaty was part of your job as liaison between the ambassadors.”

  “Huh? Oh, Pamela. That is the absolute truth!” Jake opened his eyes wide in horror. His hand went to his heart in an old gesture of avowal. The gesture put his comm in full view again. He checked it. “They’ve got to find him,” he whispered.

  Sissy chose to ignore that.

  “Perhaps that is Pammy’s official reason for being here. But she is more,” Sissy pushed him. She knew Jake well. He could not keep the truth from her for long.

  “You have your secrets, My Laudae, like the identity of the patient in critical care. We have ours.” His face closed, and he looked down, toward the line of unwashed and threadbare men and women who shuffled through the loading bay between levels of an empty wing. Soon they would fill the small apartments in the mid-gravity levels above them. Soon after, they were supposed to deploy to duties about the station.

  “Who is she that you depend upon her to find you a crew, and yet you do not trust her?”

  “If I could tell you that without endangering us both, I’d tell you.” This time he looked her in the eye.

  “If you know nothing, then our enemies, both inside and outside our ranks, won’t bother to kidnap and torture you for information.” His face blanked again. “Like they might do to . . .” He stuffed his hand into his pocket again, taking the comm out of his, and her, sight as he fixed a gentle gaze upon her.

  She looked away first. If only . . .

  But that could never be.

  “Just as you cannot tell me who is the patient who needed so much blood for surgery,” he continued. His eyes begged her to tell him. “I know he or she came off a Harmony ship. I saw some of the other passengers when we helped the refugees. I can guess.”

  “It is only a guess. You do not know!” She wanted to shout but restrained herself. “That information will endanger more than just you and me,” she continued with forced calm. “You have your secrets. I have mine. We will not exchange them. For our mutual protection.”

  “So we are at an impasse.”

  She turned away from him, swallowing deeply. The fate of the unnamed patient weighed heavily on her heart. “If they send me home, Jake, will you promise me to keep the pirate communication channel open? The people need to hear more than what governmental censors put on the Media. I don’t think I could endure Crystal Temple without hearing from you.”

  A wave of sadness crossed his face. He looked so very vulnerable. Then it was gone in a flash, replaced with the stern military man who killed when necessary.

  They both looked down at the new crew rather than at each other.

  A Harmony hover cam inched toward them, lens circling for the best view. Did someone direct it remotely rather than rely on automatic settings?

  Jake’s comm beeped. The camera came closer. He looked at his screen. Disappointment drew his mouth into a frown and made the corners of his eyes sag. He turned off the message, cursing. “Too many places for him to hide.”

  “What has you so anxious?” Sissy asked. She wanted desperately to wipe the weariness from his face with a touch, a kiss, or just a word.

  He looked away, gripping the railing with white-knuckled ferocity. “Another secret I can’t tell you. A dangerous secret, and I won’t put you at risk. I don’t think I could continue living if something happened to you because of my secrets.”

  A poignant memory made her heart heavy within her chest.

  “You’ll leave indentations if you don’t stop strangling the poor innocent piece of metal.”

  He yanked his hands away as if the railing burned him. Then he batted the watching camera away so that it turned toward the checkpoint at the air lock.

  Below them, a CSS corporal in a gray-green uniform carrying a blaster on his hip stopped a worker from disembarking. Something about the information on his identity card.

  Jake tensed and descended two steps. “Control. Hack into Harmony hover cam three and record,” he said quietly into his comm.

  The corporal ran the worker’s card through his reader a second time. He seemed satisfied with the results and waved the worker on.

  The man quickly blended in to the milling crowd of his fellows.

  “I do not trust the energy that flows around that man,” Sissy said quietly. She noted the heaviness of his beard, as if he had not shaved for a week, nor had his hair been cut in many weeks. Grime seemed embedded in the lines around his eyes. His anonymous dark green tunic and trousers looked more ragged than most of the other newcomers.

  Swirls of darkness seemed to follow him, as it did in the ancient paintings of Discord, the banished stepchild of Harmony and Empathy.

  “What?” Jake asked. He turned toward her but did not come up to her level. “I wish we had a holding area for incomers with iffy Security scans.”

  “Something is amiss with that man. And many of the others. I would not give any of these people access to important and vulnerable places on this station.” She had to close her eyes. The shadows crept closer. Her vision narrowed to a tube that connected her to Jake.

  “That’s close enough to a vision for me.” He grunted. “Tonight we go over all the work records of these people. I want to know which sewers Pammy found them in. I’d rather trust the refugees if Doc Halliday will ever release them.”

  “I suspect your Pammy found these people in prisons and asylums,” Sissy whispered. “I have never seen auras of malice before.”

  Jake caught her before she fainted. Her last coherent thought was that he might not be enough to protect her this time.

  “Where have you hidden my brother?” Mac asked the images in his terminal. He watched
the penthouse apartment. Hour after hour Number Seven moved from desk to reading chair, to dining table, to bed, and back again without a change in routine. Not so much as a shift in menu or progress in the book he read.

  Mac moved one of the remote hover cams closer to the locks and enhanced its heat detection. No one had punched in a code, and left remnants of their body temperature, in some time.

  “Thank you, members of the Media, for the gift of extra eyes that don’t lead directly back to me.” He drummed his four fingers on his thigh, thinking about what he saw there. “You have tricked me, General Jake, repeating the recorded movements in a continuous loop.”

  He checked the time signature and date stamp. They advanced at a normal rate. “I salute your programmer, Jake. But now I know you have hidden him, I know where to look.”

  He scanned station activity for anything unusual. Patterns remained the same. People moved in and out of offices and quarters at a regular rate. The diplomats continued arguing over word choice in their treaty. Engineers tried to slow the propulsion system that kept his station in a stable orbit. If Mac could help them, he would, to protect the station. Those arcane machines were beyond even his understanding.

  He watched medical staff guide his little bird through therapy. The trained professionals also moved in and out of a critical care room with purpose and closed mouths. Who did they hide? And who had died that Doc Halliday hid the body in deep freeze with triple locks. Mac could break the encoding, but not without leaving traces

  He dismissed them from his search. Whoever required so much attention was in no condition to interfere with his plans. He needed to find Number Seven alive, not some uninteresting dead body.

  He interrupted the good physician’s search of databases for information on the Squid People. Mac smiled. In this he could rearrange Admiral Marella’s agenda. He inserted a file into Doc Halliday’s computer, a duplicate of all the information he’d discovered inside the crashed ship. The entire universe needed to know why the Squids went extinct, and how their nav system was tampered with. Pammy shouldn’t keep it all to herself. Especially if she was guilty of that tampering.