As he came within sight of the Mary, he became aware of an object in the air, slowly approaching him from the ship. It was the Mary’s remote probe, floating softly on the air as it neared him. It stopped near his head, somewhat closer then casual speaking distance would warrant, and causing Mark to stop suddenly and regard the probe.
“Mister O’Bannon, I have a message from Captain Kestral.”
“Yes?” He glanced past the probe to the ship. “Is something wrong?”
“The Captain asks you to join her in the administrator’s office in the main building,” the probe responded in a low voice, set in pitch and tone to guarantee it would not carry very far. “She is waiting there for you now. She wanted me to specify that this is priority B-1.”
“I see,” Mark replied, though he was not sure that he did. “I’ll go there directly.”
He turned and headed for the main building, leaving the probe to float back to the Mary. He surreptitiously glanced about, to see if anyone in sight might have been watching. His response was prompted by Kestral’s message, and her mentioning of “priority B-1.” Such a designation was a standard Ranger code, an order not to discuss his orders until he met with his commanding officer. Mark considered her words sourly, as he approached the main building and walked inside.
An officer directed him to the administrator’s office. As he reached the office and the door opened automatically for him, he saw Kestral and Ferrin sitting at opposite ends of Ferrin’s desk. “Carolyn,” he began, “there’s a reason I don’t call myself a Ranger anymore.”
“I know,” Kestral replied, standing up. “I’m sorry, Mark. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t say anything to anyone, and I knew you’d know the code—”
“And speaking of which,” he interrupted her, “why are we sneaking around keeping secrets? We’re not—”
“I know we’re not Rangers, Mark,” Kestral snapped, her obvious acquiescence of that point cutting him off. “I said, I’m sorry. But something important has come up.”
Without another word, Kestral looked past Mark to the back of the office. Mark, following her gaze, slowly turned. He saw Moamet Jones in the corner of the office, sitting quietly in a chair. A large, silver case sat on the floor next to him.
At the sight of Jones, Mark’s face shifted from irritation to confusion. “Hey… aren’t you supposed to be going to Deep Abignon?” Jones did not immediately reply, and Mark looked to Kestral and Ferrin. “What’s going on?”
“We don’t know yet,” Ferrin answered him from her desk. “We expected a courier craft to arrive early this morning to take him to Deep Abignon. It hasn’t arrived, and we haven’t been able to locate or contact it.”
“Do you know for sure that it left?” Mark asked.
“We have confirmation that it left on time,” Ferrin told him. “But now, it’s not turning up on any astral scans.”
“Not that that’s conclusive, if they’re going at C,” Mark pointed out.
“True,” Ferrin nodded. “However, they missed a checkpoint contact. They are officially listed as lost.”
Mark looked to Jones, to Ferrin, then to Kestral. “Am I going to want to hear this?”
In response, Kestral shook her head. “Moamet Jones has asked us to take him to Deep Abignon. I’m prepared to accept his offer.”
“Why?” Mark shrugged out of Kestral’s grasp and looked at Jones. “This is supposed to be some classified military mission he’s going on. Call for a Ranger ship to get him.”
“It’s not that simple,” Kestral told him. “Come on, you’ve had strategic training, think about it. If the scout was intercepted en route here, they may or may not have revealed their mission to anyone. If they did not, then dispatching another Ranger ship here will potentially tell another party what they need to know. If they did, then any dispatched Ranger ships will also be intercepted, or will be ambushed on the way to Deep Abignon. Either way, the mission is compromised.”
“So how do we fix this?” Mark asked, though he already knew Kestral’s response.
“We’ll do a cargo run to a planet that lies along the route to Deep Abignon, and we’ll take Jones with us. No one will be stopping freighters on legitimate, commercially recorded runs. We can veer off, drop Jones off, and no one will be the wiser.”
“Carolyn—”
“Mark, we can do this,” Kestral assured him. “It’ll be an easy run, with a little side trip… that’s all.”
“That’s all?” Mark kept his voice even, but his eyes smoldered at Kestral. “We’re civilians, Carolyn. We’re not Rangers. We’re not supposed to be doing their dirty work for them. With all due respect to Mr. Jones,” he said, inclining his head in Jones’ direction, “let them send a new ship and let them worry about it! It’s not our job!”
“Mark…” Kestral began, then let her voice trail off. She looked at Jones, who seemed to know what she was going to say, and he started to protest. “Please, Moamet,” she said, “I need Mark to be on our side in this. We should tell him.”
“‘Our’ side?” Mark asked suspiciously, cocking an eye at Kestral.
“Moamet, please.”
Moamet Jones considered, and looked to Ferrin for guidance. After a few moments, Ferrin nodded, and that seemed to decide it for Jones.
“Mr. O’Bannon,” Jones began, “I am transporting an incubator to Deep Abignon.”
Mark stared dubiously. “An incubator,” he repeated.
“Yes,” Jones replied, looking down at the silver case at his feet. “It is specially designed to take a sample of an antiviral agent, and produce large quantities of it in a very short time. We’ve found a way to introduce a stable tesser field to the apparatus, to speed up the process. A sample that would have taken months to process in the past, can now be processed in minutes.”
Mark was shaking his head. “So. A really fast incubator. But I don’t recall hearing about any epidemics requiring vast amounts of vaccine to be ready by tomorrow.”
“Actually, there is a virus that it is intended to be used for,” Jones told him. “It is fast acting, highly contagious, and almost always lethal… to the carrier, and to those around them.”
Mark almost asked what virus he was talking about. Then he looked at Kestral. She returned his stare evenly, unblinking. That told him all he needed to know.
“The berserker,” he said in a low voice.
Jones nodded. “There is an antivirus in the incubator for the berserker,” he explained. “Once delivered to Deep Abignon, it will be replicated in large enough doses to be transported throughout the Galarchy, starting with all Ranger ships and outposts.”
“The berserker virus could have wiped out the entire Ranger fleet,” Kestral added. “It may be the greatest weapon the Spiders have against the Oan Galarchy. If we can rob it of its power, we will have gained a major advantage over them.”
“The Raians,” Mark countered, using the proper name for the race of beings Kestral referred to as ‘Spiders’, “can always create a new virus.”
“Not with the same lethal ability as the berserker,” Jones told him. “The berserker virus is uniquely designed to not only accelerate the human body and burn it out, but to create an imbalance in cognitive functions specifically designed to create irrational, violent tendencies. It targets specific areas of the human nervous system. The antivirus will not only protect the body from the berserker, but from any virus that attempts to trigger the same reactions, even in similar but different ways.”
“You see why it’s so important that the antivirus gets to Deep Abignon?” Kestral asked Mark.
“All I see,” Mark replied, looking pointedly at her and Jones, “is why it’s so important that you get the antivirus to Deep Abignon.”
Kestral saw both implications in his remark, and she colored deeply, but she didn’t speak further. She continued to stare at Mark, waiting for a decision from him. Jones and Ferrin also waited silently for his next words. Mark, ignoring Jones and Ferrin,
returned Kestral’s glare for an extended moment. He said nothing, but Kestral could see in his eyes that Mark was honestly considering everything he’d heard.
Mark finally broke the silence by asking Kestral, “Are you going to tell your crew about this one?”
“They don’t need to—”
“Forget it,” Mark said flatly. “Find yourself another pilot. I’m leaving.”
As he picked up his bag, Moamet Jones said, “We’ll tell them.”
Mark stopped and stared at him. Kestral said, “Moamet, you don’t have to—”
“They should be told,” Jones replied, standing up, never taking his eyes off of Mark. “We will tell them.”
Mark turned to Kestral. “We’ll tell them,” she agreed quickly.
After a few more moments to consider, Mark finally nodded, though he still did not seem satisfied with the outcome. “Fine. You’ve got a pilot. Do we have a cargo arranged?”
Ferrin replied, “We’re in the process of doing that now.”
“Uh-huh. When it’s set up, call me on the Mary and I’ll get ‘er ready.” He turned to the door.
“Thank you, Mark,” Kestral called after him.
Mark stopped at the door, turned, and took in Kestral, Ferrin and Jones, all looking upon him. “Sure, Captain.” And he walked out.
Kestral watched him go, and was aware without looking that now Ferrin and Jones were looking at her. She tried hard not to look too saddened by Mark’s reaction. She wondered how she could ever make it up to him. And she was afraid that she might not get the chance.
~
At the same time Kestral and Mark were discussing a trip to Deep Abignon, Angel was wandering through an open market not too far from the spaceport, a large sack slung over his shoulder. Since it would be a while yet before his farm was ready to produce substantial crops, he knew he would have to provide meals from purchased goods for a while, at least.
The market was fairly complete, as far as produce went. Coel had bountiful farms, which produced versions of most terrestrial crops, albeit many with a minor variation in taste or texture caused by the slightly different soil of a terraformed planet. Angel took note of which vendors offered samples to taste, which gave him the best indication of whether a particular fruit or vegetable would be the same as Terran varieties, different but workable, or too different to be palatable. He largely ignored the rest.
Occasionally, he came across a vendor that was selling Terran seeds, ready for planting. Angel already knew to avoid these in general. Very few vendors actually carried Terran seeds, despite the fact that they all claimed to… it was one of the biggest cons in Oa to offer “authentic” Terran seeds. To confirm his suspicions, he saw an occasional shopper produce a compact apparatus at the seed vendors’ stalls, the inevitable result being the vendor shooing that person away. Angel recognized the apparatus as a hortiscan, an expensive but effective tool for examining seed composition from trace elements to genetics, and reporting on its actual origin planet (or lab). The hortiscans were prized tools, and very few could afford them—most that he saw were attached by a carbon monofiber to a belt around the owner’s waist, to prevent theft. Every seed vendor in the market knew that his seeds would not pass muster against one of those devices, and pointedly kept their owners at arm’s length.
Despite the bogus seed sellers, there were plenty of good, palatable fruits and vegetables to be had. Angel also found plenty of ingredients for pastas and breads, most of which he could make with his own utensils, thereby saving on buying pre-prepared foods. He did select one or two pre-prepared desserts, which he would save for special occasions. And he was an experienced bargainer… he made sure he was not overcharged by merchants.
As he bought items, he arranged them in his shoulder bag, to keep things from getting damaged or crushed. His bag was already getting heavy, and he hadn’t bought much yet. He noted in passing a Ranger officer who seemed to be shopping aimlessly about. Occasionally, he would see something he fancied, and simply point. “That. That. Two of those. The red one.” As he went, a small hovering drone much like Mary’s sensor drone followed him, apparently taking note of what he was selecting. The drone somehow communicated to the merchant the delivery information and payment instantaneously, and the merchant would remove that item from his counter for later delivery to the Ranger’s ship.
The Ranger, however, was clearly not buying enough food for any ship. He didn’t need to… Ranger ships stored food as raw chemicals, recompiled when needed in matter compilers. He was more likely buying a few goodies for his own personal stores, or perhaps as gifts for others. It was also notable that the Ranger was not asking about the cost of a single item. Rangers were the only Oans that could do this, as the Galarchy had long ago arranged to reimburse merchants for any produce a Ranger wanted, with very few exceptions, and Rangers took full advantage of this. It would have been a great arrangement all around, except that the Galarchy did not reimburse the full value of the produce, but took a processing tax from the merchant off the top … so the merchant actually lost money, the more he sold to Rangers. This explained the polite but sour looks merchants gave the Ranger as he passed their stalls.
Thanks to the mild distraction of the aimless Ranger, Angel almost missed a meat vendor at a large corner stall… they were in a very prominent spot for people entering the market from that end, but as Angel had come from the other direction, he had not seen the telltale sign of stylized meat cuts until he was almost under it. He immediately turned and approached the counter.
A woman smiled at him from behind the counter. Angel tried not to goggle at her, which took an effort. This was because the woman was shorter than Angel, but she was almost as wide as she was tall. Her arms practically stuck out at her sides, her bulk preventing them from hanging downward. She pivoted her massive arms onto the top of the counter and said, “Good morning! What can I do for you?”
“Are these locally grown?” Angel asked.
“Yes, sir. All of our meat is grown on Coel.”
“Could I see your plant specs, then?” he asked, producing a handheld tablet from his shoulder bag.
“Certainly,” the woman nodded, reaching for a small keyboard embedded on the counter, and tapping out a combination. “You’ll get the operations specs, cuts grown, full chem breakdowns, and genetic patents there.”
“I’m getting it,” Angel nodded. As he watched his tablet’s display screen, data being broadcast from the stall downloaded and arranged itself. The woman watched his face as he watched his screen, and Angel did not see her risk a glance around, to make sure no one else was in earshot.
“Sir?”
Angel looked up casually. “Yes?”
“If it’s to your liking…” The woman looked around again, and continued in a lower voice. “If you’d prefer… although it’s not per ordinances, I do know some people who sell pen-grown meat…”
“Live animals?” Angel snapped, although he consciously kept his voice down too. “No thanks, and I’d appreciate it if you don’t mention that again… I just had breakfast.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the woman replied. Then, in a noticeably louder voice, she said, “As you can see from our data, our suppliers grow only high-grade meat, individual parts only. We use the best patents, and the healthiest nutrient mix available!”
“So I see,” Angel agreed, nodding over his tablet. It was common enough to occasionally find meat producers that used live animals, especially on planets with smaller or primarily agrarian populations. However, as individual cuts of meat could so easily be grown in processing plants without raising and slaughtering live animals, they were the preference of most meat eaters. Angel was not quite as disgusted as he let on, but he had no interest in buying pen-grown meat, and it was best to make that clear up-front.
“Looks good. So… you have tenderloins?”
~
Mark was on the bridge of the Mary when Kestral and Moamet Jones walked in. He looked up and asked,
“Do we have a job?”
“We have a job,” Kestral confirmed. “The cargo is being brought to the spaceport now, and we’ll start loading it as soon as it arrives.”
“What is it?”
“What else?” Kestral smiled. “Atronics packages. A good-sized shipment, bound for New Paropolis.” She paused, and her smile weakened a bit. “It’ll be a very profitable run for the Mary.”
“That’s nice to hear,” Mark stated, but his tone was flat.
Kestral seemed about to say something, but refrained. Moamet Jones picked up her body language and deduced its meaning for himself. “Excuse me,” he said quickly. “You showed me where my quarters were. Perhaps I’ll go and… settle in.” Without another word, he picked up the large silver case and his shoulder bag, turned and left the bridge. Mark and Kestral silently watched him go, waiting until he was out of sight before turning back to each other.
“Mark,” Kestral began, “I know how you feel about this. But I consider this a humanitarian mission, okay? And I think it’s worth it.”
“Worth the risk to your crew?” Mark asked. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the Raians are probably the ones who intercepted that scout. If they intercept us, and find Jones and a berserker antivirus on board, what do you think they’re going to do to us?”
“We’re probably the best chance Jones has of getting that antivirus to Deep Abignon,” Kestral stated. “We’re the least likely ship for the Raians to stop. If they do, they’ll see that we have legitimate cargo, and let us be on our way.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Sure enough to take the chance.” Kestral set her hands on her hips. “Mark, I’m not going to force you to go.”
“You’re right. You’re not.” Mark stood up then, and approached her. He stopped just inches from her and looked her directly in the eye. “But I’m going to go anyway. I have a feeling you’re going to need a good pilot to get you out of this.”
The Kestral Voyages: My Life, After Berserker Page 10