SILENT ORDER: IRON HAND
Jonathan Moeller
Table of Contents
Description
Chapter 1: Orders
Chapter 2: Rustbelt
Chapter 3: The Noblewoman
Chapter 4: Out Of Place
Chapter 5: Planning
Chapter 6: Ambushes
Chapter 7: Interrogation
Chapter 8: Negotiations
Chapter 9: The Glory of the Revolution
Chapter 10: The Silent Order
Other Books in the Silent Order Series
About the Author
Description
The galaxy is at war, but wars are won and lost in the shadows.
To the galaxy at large, Jack March is a privateer of the interstellar Kingdom of Calaskar and a former Iron Hand commando of the malevolent Final Consciousness. In truth, he is an alpha operative of the Silent Order, the most efficient and feared intelligence organization in human space. When there is a crisis, Jack March is the man to call.
But there are many forces that wish to enslave or destroy humanity.
And when a mission leads March to a lawless asteroid space station, he might be the only one left to stop those forces...
Silent Order: Iron Hand
Copyright 2017 by Jonathan Moeller.
Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.
Cover image copyright © Kevron2001 | Dreamstime.com - Deep Space Planet Photo & © Algol | Dreamstime.com - Spaceship With Blue Engine Glow Photo.
Gunrunner Font used by license from Daniel Zadorozny.
Ebook edition published September 2017.
All Rights Reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.
Chapter 1: Orders
Jack March had traveled to a hundred different worlds and spoken to a dozen different alien races, had fought on two different sides in a vast war, but no matter what he did, the pain in his shoulder never quite went away.
Another man might have considered that an omen or maybe a sign from God, but he ignored the pain. The shoulder always hurt, and it wasn’t supposed to hurt. Allegedly, the software interface ought to filter out any pain from the cybernetic arm grafted to his left shoulder, but nonetheless, the shoulder always had at least a mild ache.
Sometimes he thought it was his punishment for leaving the cybernetic hell of the Final Consciousness for the Silent Order.
But as punishments went, it was a mild one, so he endured it.
The chiming of his ship’s pseudointelligence woke him from a restless sleep.
“Captain March,” said the female voice with a crisp, cool Calaskaran accent. “We are approaching the terminus point of our hyperspace tunnel. Advise that you proceed to the flight cabin at once.”
“Right,” said March, grimacing at the ceiling of his cabin above his narrow bunk. He had just about given up attempting to sleep anyway. “Time?”
“Ten minutes,” said the cool female voice.
“Thank you,” said March, getting to his feet. He rubbed his face with his right hand, the stubble rasping against his palm. Time for a shave? No, better head to the flight cabin. Never knew when something would go wrong coming out of hyperspace. “Start the procedure for bringing the dark matter reactor to standby, along with the primary and the backup resonator coils. I’ll take manual control for the approach to Antioch Station.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Thank you, Vigil,” said March. Some pilots named their computer’s pseudointelligences, some did not. March did, partly because it felt odd to converse with something without a name, and partly because the Final Consciousness did not give names to any of their artificial intelligences, only numerical designations. It was a minor act of rebellion, considering that he had abandoned the Machinists for the Silent Order and Calaskar, but he enjoyed it nonetheless.
“You are welcome, Captain,” said Vigil.
March pulled on his coat over his flight suit, slinging his gun belt around his hips. Then he pulled on a black glove over his left hand, concealing the gleaming metal fingers and stepped out of his cramped cabin and into the dorsal corridor of his ship.
The air smelled a bit dusty. Once March arrived at Antioch Station, he would have to do a maintenance check on the life support systems. March walked past the galley, the gym, the armory, the passenger cabins, and into flight cabin. The Tiger was a Mercator Foundry Yards Class 9 light freighter, which was a polite way of saying “blockade runner,” and a class of starship favored by independent traders, privateers, and pirates across the starfaring nations of civilized space. March might have been an operative of the Silent Order of Calaskar, but the Silent Order, like all intelligence organizations, was stingy, so March actually was a licensed privateer. The Class 9 light freighter had been designed for a crew of six, but March flew the ship alone, aided only by Vigil.
It worked, but sometimes maintenance tasks fell through the cracks. Hence the dusty smell in the corridor.
The flight cabin was a small, narrow room with four stations, each with their own acceleration chairs. March dropped into the pilot’s chair, the smart foam of the padding closing around the shape of his body, and powered on the piloting console. Holographic displays flared to life, blue text and images upon a black background, and he flicked through the checklist, preparing the Tiger for the transition from the perils of hyperspace to normal space.
Not that normal space didn’t have its own dangers, of course.
“Captain,” said Vigil in her precise Calaskaran accent. “We are approaching the terminus point.”
“Very well,” said March, gripping the appropriate levers. Many of the Tiger’s controls were holographic or on touchscreens, but the vital controls were hardwired, and the hyperspace controls were one of them. “Give me a countdown.”
“Five, four, three, two, one…now.”
March pulled the levers, and the Tiger exited its hyperspace tunnel and returned to normal space.
Dozens of minor things happened in the flight cabin. The sight of hyperspace could induce insanity in a normal human mind (and that was one of the better possible outcomes), so the exterior views had been blanked. The viewscreens now lit up with views of the Antioch system and the surrounding star field, the planets and the moons brighter dots against the blackness. The dark matter reactor and the resonator shut down, and the Tiger’s kinetic shields came online to block micrometeors and other debris. The fusion drive kicked on, and the ion thrusters powered up.
The sensor displays flickered with readings of Antioch Station, and March switched one of the viewscreens to target the station.
He had seen a lot of space stations in his travels, but he had to admit Antioch Station was an impressive sight. The Antioch system was the outer edge of the core worlds claimed by the Kingdom of Calaskar, and the station looked like the kind of giant installation found in orbit around worlds with populations in the billions. The station was five thick, concentric rings of gleaming metal, the largest nearly five kilometers in diameter. Racks of solar panels rose from the rings, and the Tiger’s sensors detected hundreds of ships of varying size docked with the station. The sensors also picked up powerful weapon systems, and two Royal Calaskaran Navy destroyers patrolling the station’s defense perimeter.
To his amusement, he felt a flicker of patriotic pride. He had not been
born Calaskaran but had joined the Kingdom after his escape from the Final Consciousness. Such feelings should not have been possible in his machine-scarred soul, but there it was. He had to admit the station looked impressive, even beautiful.
Certainly, nothing the cybernetic slaves of the Final Consciousness built looked anywhere near as graceful.
One of his displays lit up as a traffic control officer from Antioch Station hailed him. March responded and fed his credentials and ship registration into the computer. Because of the nature of his work, he had several dozen different sets of forged ship registrations and credentials, but at a Calaskaran station, he could use the Tiger’s legitimate registration.
As he expected, the registration generated a response, and after a moment the traffic control officer appeared on the screen.
“Your name?” he said. He was a young Calaskaran, clean-cut and sober looking.
“Jack March,” March answered.
“Occupation?” said the officer.
“Independent freighter captain,” said March. “Licensed privateer holding letters of marque.”
“And the reason for your visit to Antioch Station?” said the officer.
“Stopover for supplies,” said March, which he supposed was true enough. “I plan to head to the outer colonies and the asteroid mines. They are always looking for freighter space. I can pay for my supplies with hard currency, no credit.”
“Any cargo to declare?” said the officer.
“None,” said March.
“Very good, Captain March,” said the officer. He worked on something off-screen for a moment. “You are hereby assigned to dock at Airlock Thirty-Seven on Ring Three. That will be tight for a Class 9 Mercator Yards runner, but you should be able to manage it. Standard docking fees. Any questions?”
“None,” said March.
“Welcome to Antioch Station, Captain March,” said the officer. “Remember that Antioch Station is sovereign territory of the Kingdom of Calaskar, and the law of the Kingdom applies here. Have a pleasant stay.”
The screen went dark. Antioch Station loomed larger on the central display, with Airlock Thirty-Seven flashing on Ring Three.
“Manual control, Vigil,” said March, flipping a series of switches and gripping the flight yoke.
“Are you certain, Captain?” said Vigil. “It will be a precise docking maneuver.”
“I know,” said March, using the ion thrusters to ease the Tiger towards Ring Three, one of the Calaskaran destroyers passing overhead. “That’s why I’m doing it. Best to stay sharp.”
“Is that why you spend all that time in the gym with the gravity dialed up?” said Vigil.
“Precisely,” said March. “I’m in a dangerous business. Skills can’t be left to rust. Stay quiet so I can concentrate.”
He set the Tiger on a vector towards Ring Three. A kilometer from the station, he cut the fusion drive, taking the ship in with just the ion thrusters. He spun the ship around, using the dorsal thruster to glide the Tiger towards the ring, and then eased the ship’s cargo airlock against the side of the ring.
A moment later he felt the vibration as the station’s airlock clamps locked on, and the displays flashed confirmation of a successful docking.
“We are docked, Captain,” said Vigil. “Nicely done.”
“Thanks,” said March, setting the Tiger’s systems back to standby.
“Would you like to arrange for standard maintenance?” said Vigil.
“Just for the life support systems,” said March. “Run the standard diagnostics, and have our repair drones go over the ship. If you find anything wrong, give me a call. Else I don’t want to spend the money.”
“Very well, Captain,” said Vigil. “Enjoy your stay at Antioch Station.”
“I doubt it,” said March.
He unstrapped from the acceleration seat, got to his feet, and made his way from the flight cabin, down to the cargo bay and to the stern airlock. The outer door cycled, and March stepped over, checking his gun belt and the weapons hidden up his right sleeve.
Then the inner door cycled, and Jack March walked onto Antioch Station.
He had been here before, and he knew that the public concourses and market areas of the station were built of gleaming white metal, with plenty of hydroponic plants and solar lamps to simulate sunlight. Alas, Airlock Thirty-Seven on Ring Three did not share such luxuries. The chamber beyond the airlock was built of dull gray metal. Instead of a welcome officer or robot, a computer screen on the wall cycled through a slideshow displaying a listing of the station’s businesses and advertisements for ship repair and supplies.
March walked past it without looking and stepped into the corridor beyond. The long corridor ran the length of Ring Three, with regular archways leading to the other airlock chambers and cargo bays.
He expected the corridor to be deserted.
He did not expect three men to be waiting for him.
All three looked tough and dangerous and stood as if they knew how to handle themselves in a fight. The three men wore the jumpsuits of cargo handlers, an unfamiliar logo on their arms, likely the corporation the Kingdom of Calaskar had hired to manage the freighter traffic through the station.
The man in the center did not look like a cargo handler.
He had the lean, tight build of a competent fighter, and a thick scar went down the left side of his face, turning his lip into a permanent sneer. Unlike the others, he wore a brown coat over his cargo handler’s jumpsuit, one hand resting in his hip pocket. All three men moved to block the corridor, and the man in the center offered a friendly smile, though the scar ruined the effect.
“Welcome, Captain,” said the man in the brown coat.
A mugging? No, that wasn’t it. An isolated part of the station was perfect for a mugging, but frankly, anyone coming through this corridor wouldn’t have anything worth stealing.
Which meant they were waiting for him, specifically.
“Hi,” said March, coming to a stop a meter away from them. “Suppose you’re the welcoming committee, right?”
The scarred man grinned. “That’s right, I am. Why don’t you come with us? We’ll take you to the hospitality kiosk.”
“Nah,” said March. “Think I’ll find my own way if you don’t mind. Stretch my legs after all that flying.”
The scarred man kept grinning. “I think you’ll want to come with us.” He produced a small black plasma pistol from inside his pocket, leveling the emitter at March’s chest. “I think you’ll want to come with us right now.”
The other two men laughed.
They stopped laughing when March moved.
His left hand shot out and seized the end of the pistol. The servos in his cybernetic arm made no sound, but he felt their vibration as they engaged. March closed his fist and crushed the pistol before the scarred man could pull the trigger. The scarred man yelped and jerked his hand back, and March punched him in the stomach with his right hand.
The other two men attacked as their leader fell back, and March exploded into motion. The other two men were good, but they did not have March’s cybernetic arm. They did not have the nanotech swimming through his blood. And most importantly, they did not have the brutal lessons that the trainers of the Final Consciousness had beat into him, the lessons that he now used against his former masters.
The lessons that he now turned against the other two men, men he suspected of being paid hirelings of the Final Consciousness. Even on Calaskar, the Machinists had friends and sympathizers, useful idiots for the cause of the Final Consciousness
And if there were useful idiots on Calaskar itself, why not on Antioch Station?
One of the men produced a knife, and March caught it in his left hand, his fingers crushing both the weapon and the man’s hand. The man screamed as his fingers snapped, and March kicked him in the knee and sent him sprawling. The third man punched, and March parried with his right hand, ducked under a second blow, and kicked the man from hi
s feet.
For a moment his enemies were stunned, and March considered his options.
The logical solution was to kill all three, and March drew his gun from its holster. Yet killing them was more risk than it was worth. He had spotted a security camera in the ceiling a few yards down the corridor, and Antioch Station was a law-abiding place. March couldn’t trust that his attackers had been smart enough to disable the cameras. If he shot them all, he would be arrested, and he would have to invoke the authority of the Silent Order to deal with the matter.
That would annoy his superiors to no end. The only thing Censor hated more than a mess was official attention from the other authorities of the Kingdom. The whole point of the Silent Order was to remain silent and unseen.
March considered interrogating his attackers to learn more but discarded that idea. There wasn’t time to do it properly, and he doubted he could find a location free of security cameras on short notice.
All three men stared at the emitter of his pistol.
“Wallets,” said March. “On the deck, now. If you’re professionals, I’m sure you know the routine.”
They reached into their pockets and dropped their wallets on the deck. Two of the men looked sheepish. The man with the scarred face was cold and calm and collected, his eyes boring into March as if marking him for future vengeance.
Maybe it would be better to just shoot him now.
“On your feet,” said March, gesturing with his gun. The men got to their feet. “Turn around and run as fast as you can while counting to a thousand. When you get to a thousand, you’re done. Go!”
The men ran down the corridor, boots thumping against the deck. March stooped and picked up their wallets. He supposed they could call the station authorities and claimed that he had mugged them, but then he would have the authorities pull the video from the camera, proving that they had attacked first.
No, if they came after him again, they would choose a different avenue of attack.
He tapped the collar of his jacket, where he had clipped a microphone paired to his phone. “Vigil?”
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