“On a station populated almost entirely with armed soldiers on the verge of war?” Donal shook his head. “I’d like to see you try.”
Nathen answered by snapping his fingers. Helen reached into her jacket and pulled out a fragmentation grenade. She handed it to Nathen who, with Donal watching, pulled the pin and dropped the explosive right into the sergeant’s inbox, crushing several memos. Donal eyed the grenade, but didn’t react. Several seconds passed, with no explosion. Donal arched an eyebrow at Nathen.
“Everyone within a fifteen meter radius just became a casualty,” Nathen said, tossing the pin onto the desk with a clink.
“Alright,” the Infantry sergeant said, reaching forward and picking up the pin. “You’ve made your point, Bracken. Where do you want to start?”
Nathen ticked them off. “I want deck schematics, maintenance layouts. Everything you’ve got of this station’s critical systems, from gravity to life support.”
“That's been done,” Donal said, dismissively. “We've already had two inspections by the Navy Engineers.”
“Yes, but they want things to look good. It’s their work, after all,” Nathen said. “The obligation to improve is overpowered by the denial that anything is flawed. We offer an unbiased opinion. My team and I-”
“Your team.” Donal cut in, abruptly. “I need to know how many and who they are.”
“No, you don't,” Nathen said, sternly. “We're not here to be seen, we're here because we are being paid to find this station's vulnerabilities. We can't do our job if we're being stopped at every door and followed down every corridor. Let them know we’re on the station; I suspect our uniforms will give us away anyway. But don't tell anyone too much.”
Donal crossed his arms. “A little testy on sharing information?”
“White Sun has its policies,” Nathen explained, feeding into the cover story. “We won't get in your way if you don't get in ours.”
Donal thought for a few seconds. Then he locked his fingers together.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I'll give you the free tour. You can check out anywhere you like. Full access to you and your people. I can have access cards printed out.” Donal looked down at his thumbs. “That means I get a little blip every time you use 'em, so I know where you've been, and I can check your progress. That way, maybe I won't have to follow you around everywhere. Fair nuff?”
Nathen thought about it, then nodded. “That's fair. I can keep you regularly updated on our findings.”
Donal sat up and stuck out a palm. “Deal, then.”
Nathen took his hand and shook it. “Pleasure doing business. Let's get to work.”
Donal inclined his head. “Likewise. I'll give your people a call when those access cards are ready.”
With affairs settled, Nathen turned and walked out the door with Helen right behind. The two door sentries stood at attention, watching the strangers leave without their escorts. When they were clear of the crowd of soldiers in the barracks, Helen drew closer to Nathen.
“Smooth, Boss,” she said, glibly. “You'd make a great mercenary.”
“Hmm,” Nathen grunted, dismissively. “It would nice to be paid as much.”
Helen nodded, 'hmm'ing in agreement. They reached the lift and got in, this time without their four-man escort. The doors closed, and they started down.
“So what now?” Helen asked, reaching up and rubbing at her exposed neck beneath her bound hair. “How do we go about catching this leak?”
“Catching it is not the problem,” Nathen said, scanning the elevator for any obvious listening devices. “Finding it is going to be the challenge.”
“And you think our traitor is going to make a move here?”
“It's like the saying goes. Give them enough rope and they'll hang themselves. With hundreds of ships moving through this system, we have miles of rope.”
Nathen turned and eyed Helen.
“Trust me. Whoever it is, they'll step up to the gallows soon enough.”
Chapter 31
The cafeteria for the Orbit Angel was nothing special. When the station had been converted to receive heavier traffic, it became apparent that the Orbit Angel would need something a little more expansive than the two mess rooms for the barracks. So the engineers had converted one of the old, dusty storage bays into a Spartan but roomy cafeteria to be used for the entire station’s convenience. The boxy room had an overseer's station suspended from the ceiling, smack in the center of the room, with four staircases stretching down. The overseer's station was originally designed for lift operators to move heavy cargo containers, but was now a dining area for officers and captains who were shuttled over while their ships recharged and refueled.
Most starships didn't have a cook. The strict dietary needs of space were often boiled down to bare necessities, then packed by machines to be vended out as ration packs. Orbit Angel had the small luxury of a few cooks stationed on board. The meals were still considered wretched, but most agreed it at least had a more organic taste to it than the typical fare. Even if that organic taste was slightly reminiscent of the scorching of a blowtorch, since apparently the cooks were just ex-hangar mechanics.
The mid-cycle meal was being served, and throughout the clustered groups, one table remained oddly empty. Amid the sea of engineers and Infantry uniforms and off-duty crew, a single table seated three quiet men in white and black uniforms. Phillip Norsehill, Trenton Baxter, and Jonathan Harper took up an entire twenty-seat cafeteria table, as if an invisible shield had been erected around them. The men had claimed the table and then retrieved their humble meals before sitting down together to eat.
Trent looked up from his tray, his jaws working as they grinded through pieces of nutrients bread. The stuff was stale and all but tasteless, as only bread baked in exhaust heat would taste. Trent was one of the only ESCs who chose to eat it. The others were slowly picking through their 'fruit salad' looking for a piece that actually resembled fruit of any kind. Alas, the mush used to be fruit, before the cook blended it in a turbine.
“You should eat up,” Trent said, through a gnarly jawful of stiff bread. “This stuff'll boost your immune system.”
“A solid kick in the lower intestine would boost my immune system,” Phillip said, half jokingly. “You think if I went up and asked for more they'd throw me out?”
“Shut up and appreciate the artwork,” Jonathan said, shoveling a spoonful of the fruity paste into his mouth.
Trent finally won the battle of the bicuspids and swallowed his successfully chewed bread. “You know this stuff's not bad, but I actually think I prefer scavenging on mission.”
Phillip swallowed a tiny nip of the bread and made a face. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask. Have you ever eaten, you know, them?”
Trent froze, spoon halfway toward his gaping mouth. Jonathan looked up from whittling a biscuit with his holdout knife and gave Phillip a disgusted look. Phillip dropped his bread onto his dish and attempted to recover.
“What I meant was-”
“I know what you meant,” Trent said.
“I mean, they’re alien, right? So it’s not like cannibalism. Humans have eaten all sorts of animals on other worlds. Don’t you wonder if we’re all just one big intergalactic buffet?”
“Norsehill,” Jonathan said, shaking his head dismally. “Only a smart guy like you would think of something so dumb.
Phillip snorted in response. “Eat me, caveman.”
Trent lowered his spoon and picked at his tray, thoughtfully. “It’s crossed my mind.”
Phillip and Jonathan both looked at the dignified sniper in surprise. Trent looked up and shrugged.
“I’d never try it out of curiosity. But when I look at what we’re up against…” Trent pushed his tray away. “The Insectoids have fewer qualms about devouring their enemies than we do. We hold some things as taboo that they don’t seem to.”
“That’s because they’re sick,” Jonathan said.
“Ma
ybe,” Trent said with another thoughtful shrug. “But when the ships are down and the supply lines are run dry, and you’re sitting a long way from a friendly star and a hot meal, how far is a desperate soldier going to go when he’s faced with an enemy who never goes hungry?”
The men chewed over the thought longer than they had with their stale bread. Finally, Jonathan shook his head and picked up his spoon.
“Well, if it’s any better than what we’re eating here, then I can’t say I blame them.”
Phillip perked up, grunting to get the attention of his comrades through a mouthful of paste.
“By the way, did you guys hear? The Sktish Armada just got its tail whooped at Junction.”
Trent frowned, looking sideways at Phillip. “What? When did that happen?”
“Last night,” Phillip said, lowering his voice a bit. “Just after we got back from the Menturion System.”
“That’s just a rumor,” Jonathan said, finding his food more interesting than his teammate.
“No, no,” Phillip insisted. “I read it in one of the manager’s reports. The War Hive blitzed Junction because the Sktish were regrouping to take back Var Dartum. The Armada got torn apart.”
“By the Sun,” Trent whistled, taking a drink from his cup. “How far is Junction from here?”
Phillip shrugged. “From here? Mmm, few day's journey.”
Jonathan shook his head. “You could practically look out the window and watch their fleet burn from here.”
The next second, a tray with a sparse serving of food dropped onto the tabletop next to Jonathan. The stealthist finished swallowing his fruit paste then calmly looked up. Calico Trast stood next to the table in a brand new white and black private security uniform. Her vibrant red, shoulder-length hair was tied back in a knot behind her head. Without her bangs loose, her intelligent emerald eyes were very clear. The girl looked about at the three men for a moment before speaking.
“Is anyone sitting here?”
Phillip arched an eyebrow at Trent before shaking his head. Calico still hesitated, until Jonathan looked back to his tray and waved a lazy hand next to him.
“By all means, join us.”
Calico sighed and delicately stepped over the bench before sitting down, adjusting the tray to her front. Her posture was sharp and stiff; very military, which suited her uniform to a T. Only Trent shared her straight-backed, lock-kneed perch as they ate. Both Phillip and Jonathan were more lax, resting elbows and slouching to one side or the other. Calico picked up her utensils and began to politely eat like she was sitting at the dining table of the Serim royal family. Jonathan continued to pry at his bread with his knife. Neither exchanged glances, or words. Phillip and Trent shared concerned looks, sensing some unspoken tension at the table. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Trent scraped at his mouth with a napkin and cleared his throat.
“So,” he said. “While we have the chance, why don't we get a little more familiar with each other.”
It took a second for Calico to realize the sniper was talking to her. She looked up, halfway through mixing her fruit paste, eyes looking for a way out. After a second, she looked back down, bashfully.
“I'm probably not very interesting,” she said, shyly plucking at some jerky straws next to her bread.
Trent cracked a rare smile and pushed his tray aside.
“You don't have to be interesting,” he said, encouragingly. “We'll be taking care of that sooner or later.”
Calico looked up, spoon glued to the tray. Trent's smile shrank until only his eyes held a friendly glow.
“Give it a shot.”
Calico reached up and gently rubbed her temple, thinking. She glanced sideways at Jonathan, but the stealthist didn't give her encouragement either way. After a second, Calico sighed and turned back to the front. She barely looked up in time to avoid the sloppy splat of fruit paste as it slapped onto the tabletop just to her left. Calico started as across the table Phillip sucked air in through his teeth.
“Dangit,” Phillip muttered, picking up his spoon and repositioning it on the lip of his tray. The tech expert idly reloaded his tiny catapult as he looked at Calico. “Sorry, that wasn't aimed at you. Go ahead.”
Calico blinked, then unable to help herself she cracked a grin. She looked down at her tray and managed to pry her spoon loose and sipped a fruit chunk off its tip. The girl cleared her throat and lifted her head.
“I'm not sure where to start,” she said, sheepishly. “Why don't you ask me a question?”
“Fair enough,” Trent said, thinking. “How did you learn to speak other languages so well?”
Calico blinked. “Just a hobby.”
Phillip snorted and shook his head. “A hobby? What?”
“A strange thing to say,” remarked Trent, looking thoughtful. “It can't be easy, learning all these alien dialects.”
“It’s been a passive interest of mine my whole life,” Calico said, linking her fingers with a shrug. “I've been speaking non-Basic dialects since I was seven. I tend to pick up the tongue skills pretty quickly.”
“And this was your career choice?” Jonathan asked. “Translator?”
Calico shook her head. “No, actually it was going to be law school.”
Trent frowned. “That seems rather contradictory to your current position.”
“Father's idea,” she said with a slight grimace. “He was constantly pushing for it. I don't think he liked his tomboyish bookworm of a daughter speaking gibberish all the time.”
Phillip positioned his spoon with a fresh glob on it and cocked his head toward his target: the food tray at the end of the table. “Sounds like the old man knew his little girl had talent. That doesn't mean you'll be the best at everything.”
Calico blushed a little. “Well, I...”
Trent arched an eyebrow at her across the table. “What?”
Calico looked up with an abashed grin. “Not to brag or anything, but... I'm kind of a registered genius.”
Trent looked more interested. “Really?”
“No kidding,” said Jonathan, not sounding impressed.
“In three systems,” Calico said, shyly. “My parents had me tested when I was ten. I don't like to bring it up because, well, I don't think I'm as smart as people think I am. I just have a really strong gift for learning.”
“They don't register you as a genius intellect for having a good memory,” Trent said.
“It’s not my memory. It’s my mental adaptivity. I don't just memorize facts. I absorb skills. My memory is actually not the best.” Calico lifted a finger toward her temple. “I had someone describe it once as canvas memory, as opposed to photographic memory.”
“Sounds amazing,” Trent said, impressed. Calico lowered her arm with a frown.
“It’s really not,” she said. “It’s one of those things that either really works, or really doesn't. By the time I'd become certified in my twelfth language, I'd dropped out of law school twice.”
“Ouch,” Phillip said, slamming his fist down on the end of his spoon. The fruit paste sprayed straight up and rained down on his arm. “Dangit!”
Calico shook her head and twirled her spoon in her own mush. “Mind if we change the subject?”
“Sure,” Trent said, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Let's see...”
“I've got one,” Jonathan said, putting down his spoon and turning sideways on the bench to face Calico. “What were you doing in the Infantry? If you're such a linguistics prodigy, then you should be running with the intelligence department. Like everyone says you should be.” Jonathan thumbed over his shoulder at the throngs of Infantry uniforms. “How did you get mixed up with those glorified grunts?”
Calico gave a wry grin. “Oh, I blame Jim for that one.”
Jonathan leaned on the tabletop, arching an eyebrow. “Who's that?”
Calico looked sideways at the stealthist. “My older brother. James Trast. He joined the Infantry when I entered law school. The
first time.”
“ 'Older' brother?” Trent asked. Calico nodded.
“Older than Tom, my other older brother.”
“How many brothers are there?” Phillip asked.
“Two,” Calico said. “I was the only daughter.”
A shadow of a smile crossed her face.
“It got tiring, hearing mom and dad going on and on about how brilliant I was. Jim and Tom treated me like an equal, even though I was five years younger than one, and more than five years than the other one.” She snorted a brief laugh as she reached up and rested an ear on her palm. “Tom used to joke that I was the best little brother he ever had.”
“Heh,” Phillip chuckled, sliding his spoonapult into position. “What a wisecrack.”
“Yeah,” Calico said, nodding. “They always had grand schemes they would try to rope me into, ever since we were kids. Tom was the general and Jim was our vanguard.”
Calico rolled her head against her palm, staring down at the table with a thoughtful stare.
“They used to call me Scout.”
Jonathan idly picked up his cup and swirled the drink once. “Sounds like you three were close.”
Calico's eyes went from glimmering warm to dull cold.
“Yes,” she murmured. “We were.”
Jonathan paused with the cup against his lips. He put it down and slowly turned his head her way.
“Who died first?”
Phillip's boyish grin suffered a buzzkill. Trent's eyes darted around at the other tables, sweeping to make sure no one was listening. The stolid sniper turned back to the others.
“Let's change the subject,” he said.
“No,” Calico said quickly, bringing her eyes up and forcing a smile. “It’s okay, I don't mind talking about it.”
She sighed and dropped her hand away from her ear.
“Jim joined the Infantry about the same time Tom signed up with the Planetary Guard. That was just a year before Navpoint Vantage got attacked.” Calico looked down at her nearly untouched food and flicked a jerky straw away. “Last letter I received from Jim…”
Calico trailed off, almost distractedly. After a second she recollected herself and straightened up.
Prime Alpha (Planetary Powers Book 1) Page 38