Silent Order: Iron Hand
Page 9
“We did,” said Bishop, gently guiding Roanna and Heath forward. “These are friends of mine. Let’s call them the Lady and the Officer. Make them comfortable in the storeroom, will you? Captain March and I need to discuss a few things.” He offered a genial smile to Roanna and Heath. “Please, make yourselves at home. Once the captain and I have made some plans, we can discuss how to proceed.”
“I should help,” said Heath.
Anne looked back and forth between Roanna and Heath, a bright smile on her face, but March saw the calculation in her pretty eyes.
“Not yet, Officer,” said Bishop. “I’m afraid you don’t have any local knowledge of Rustbelt Station, which I have, nor extensive experience in doing dirty work, which is what Captain March has.”
“But…” said Heath.
“I’m sure you’ll agree,” said Bishop, “that the Lady’s safety must be our first priority. My storeroom is the safest place for her until we can find a more secure location.”
Heath sighed. “Agreed.”
“Captain March,” said Roanna, passing March a piece of folded paper. “A copy of the letter I received on Tamlin’s World.”
“Thank you,” said March.
“Right this way, please,” said Anne, and she led Heath and Roanna into the storeroom behind the bar. Bishop claimed two cups of coffee, and he and March sat at a booth in the corner, out of earshot of any of the patrons.
“Well, Jack,” said Bishop. “What do you think?”
March took a drink of the coffee, felt it burn against his tongue, and swallowed.
“A damned mess,” said March.
Bishop snorted. “I thought you might say that.”
“A damned mess, and we don’t know nearly as much as we need to,” said March. “Let me read this, and then we can decide what to do.”
Bishop nodded, opening a little packet of sugar and dumping it into the coffee. March unfolded the letter and read it. The technique of cutting up letters from different publications and pasting them to a sheet was ancient, but it was still effective. The letter said that Thomas Vindex was held captive by a cell of Machinist sympathizers. Lady Roanna was to meet them at Ore Complex 5 on Rustbelt Station at a specific date at 02:00 in the morning. If she brought sufficient funds, Thomas would be released to her unharmed, and they would go their separate ways.
If not, he would be killed.
March passed the letter to Bishop, who read it in silence.
“Seems simple enough,” said Bishop.
“That means it isn’t,” said March, watching the restaurant and the crowds passing through the concourse outside.
“Ore Complex 5 is abandoned,” said Bishop. “Has been before I even set up shop out here. Most of the equipment is still there, but no one has touched it in decades. It would be the perfect place for someone to set up shop for a quiet prisoner exchange.”
“Three things that bother me about this,” said March.
Bishop gestured with his coffee cup.
“First,” said March, “I’d wonder if the Machinists were involved at all. Wouldn’t be the first time some petty criminals used the Machinists as cover. Except the involvement of Lorre proves this is a Machinist operation. Why are they holding Thomas for ransom and then trying to assassinate his sister when she comes to pay the ransom?”
Bishop shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Second,” said March. “Why have the sister deliver the ransom?”
“She wants to avoid a scandal,” said Bishop. “Fat chance of that, though. Too many people know at this point.”
“But why the sister?” said March. “You know as well as I do how dangerous it is out here. A young woman traveling alone is a tempting target for all kinds of scum. If she’s unlucky, she’ll wind up chained to the wall in the rec room of a pirate ship or sold to some Kezredite warlord or banker with a taste for slave girls.”
“Maybe the Machinists want her out here for some reason,” said Bishop.
“What reason?” said March, and Bishop shrugged. “A third problem. Are we going to have to shoot Samuel Heath?”
“You don’t trust him?” said Bishop.
“No,” said March. “A naval officer going without leave to help a woman with a sob story? It’s not believable.”
“It’s very believable,” said Bishop. “I’ve spent more time with young naval officers than you have, my friend. They have this chivalrous streak. The older ones are wiser, but the young ones like to think of themselves as dashing knights fighting to defend King and Calaskar from the dangers of the galaxy. A pretty girl like Roanna? A man like Lieutenant Heath would fall for her, and fall hard.”
March grunted. “Any way to check his claims?”
Bishop shrugged. “In time. I don’t have a database of active naval personnel. I could send in a records request, but it might take three or four weeks to get an answer.”
March shook his head. “Don’t bother. In three days, we’ll know the truth one way or another. It is still a suspicious story.”
“You have no romance in your soul, my friend,” said Bishop with a laugh.
“It was surgically removed years ago,” said March. “Fine. We can both agree Heath is a romantic young fool. What do you think of Lady Roanna?”
“That,” said Bishop, taking another sip of coffee, “is a very dangerous young woman.”
“Agreed,” said March.
“She’s got Heath twisted around her little finger,” said Bishop, “and I don’t think she even had to sleep with him to do it. The best part? I doubt she’s even completely realized what she’s doing. She’s had servants all her life. Likely she’s used to thinking that everyone will put her wishes first.”
“I think she knows exactly what she is doing,” said March. He saw Anne emerge from the storeroom and return to the bar. “There’s a way to find out. Let’s ask Anne what she thinks.”
“Why?” said Bishop, following suit as March stood.
“Women notice things about each other that men do not.”
Bishop started to argue, but then shrugged. “That’s not a bad idea.”
March crossed to the bar, and Anne flashed a smile at him.
“Captain March,” she said. “Got any new friends for me? Or do you want to get to know me better?”
“What do you think about the woman in the storeroom?” said March.
Anne laughed. “Seriously?”
“It would be helpful, Anne,” said Bishop. “You know my business gets complicated sometimes, and the young lady is one of those complications.”
“All right,” said Anne with a shrug. “She’s trouble, boss.”
“What makes you say that?” said Bishop.
“You can always tell the type,” said Anne. “That boy with her? She’s got his head all twisted around. If she told him to shoot himself, he’d probably do it before the words were out of her mouth. She doesn’t feel for him the way he feels for her, I can tell you that much.” Anne hesitated. “But I don’t think she’s a bad sort, not really. She was polite to me.” Her mouth twisted. “You can always tell a lot about people by how they treat the waitresses and bartenders. Some of the nobles think people like me are dirt. If your noblewoman thought that, she was too polite to say it.” She shrugged once more. “Mostly, she just seems scared. Rustbelt Station will do that on the first visit.”
“Thank you,” said March.
“We could talk more about it later,” said Anne.
“Perhaps,” said March. “Thank you again.” He walked with Bishop back to their table.
“You should talk about it with her later,” said Bishop. “I’m sure she has other things on her mind than just talking.”
March grimaced. “I’m working. And she knows I’m a privateer. Likely she just wants a ride off this rock.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” said Bishop. “It wouldn’t hurt you to have a little fun. If a man gets his head too messed up about women, he could do somethi
ng stupid like go AWOL because a noblewoman told him a sad story.”
March gave him a flat look.
Bishop only smiled and spread his thick hands. “It is obviously a sore spot. I would not keep picking at it otherwise.”
“I suggest,” said March, “we focus on finding a way to keep Lady Roanna and her brother alive. You can devote your attention to finding me a woman after we have finished.”
Bishop laughed. “Very well. What did you have in mind?”
“As I see it, we have three tasks before us,” said March, ticking off the points on the fingers of his right hand. “First, we need to keep Lady Roanna alive until we have ransomed her brother. Second, we need to do what we can to gain additional information. Third, if the Machinists have not yet arrived to take control of Ore Complex 5, we can prepare the battlefield to our liking.”
“It wouldn’t be best to keep Roanna here,” said Bishop. “Too many people have seen you come here, and at least some people know that I have connections to the Silent Order. This would be the obvious place to keep her.”
“Your friend’s bar, perhaps?” said March.
Bishop laughed. “And we could have Roanna dance on the stage? It might be worth it just to see Heath’s expression. No, no. The scum of the station tends to gather there, and I wouldn’t leave a five-credit note unattended there, let alone a potentially valuable hostage like Roanna Vindex.”
“The Tiger, then,” said March. “We’ll keep her and Heath on my ship. Vigil can watch for threats, and Lorre and his men won’t get onto the Tiger without heavy weaponry.” He thought for a moment. “We need a way to get them unseen onto the ship, though.”
“Maintenance tug,” said Bishop at once. “They occasionally do circuits of the landing bays, watching for the development of fault lines on the surface of the asteroid. A small bribe will suffice to get our guests aboard one. The tug can set down in your bay, and we can get our guests aboard the Tiger without notice.”
“That should work,” said March. “After that, I’ll take a look around Ore Complex 5. If the Machinists are setting up there, perhaps we can sabotage them. While I do that, you should check the records of any incoming ships. If Thomas Vindex is already at the station, we can grab him. If he’s arriving and we can puzzle out what ship he’s on, we can lie in wait for him.”
“All right,” said Bishop. “What time is it?”
“18:00 hours,” said March. “Local station time.”
“Already?” said Bishop with a frown, and then he yawned. “Well, it has been an eventful day, hasn’t it? The next maintenance tug should go out at 20:00 hours. I’ll make some calls, and we’ll have you and your friends shipped over to the Tiger. I suggest you go with them. If assassins come after Roanna, you have the best chance of keeping them alive.”
“Agreed,” said March, and he finished his coffee.
###
After the adventures of the day, reaching the Tiger proved surprisingly easy.
Bishop led them through the service corridors until they reached a utility hangar. The tug pilot, a surly middle-aged man Bishop had paid to be blind, deaf, and mute, led them to his craft, a boxy ship painted a dull yellow. March, Roanna, and Heath strapped in, and the tug took off, circling the pockmarked surface of Rustbelt Station until it hovered over Bay 93. March called Vigil, and the ship’s computer opened the Tiger’s dorsal airlock, letting the tug dock.
March led the way into the ship, followed by Roanna. Heath trailed after the noblewoman, grunting as he maneuvered their travel bags. He was carrying both his bag and Roanna’s. March didn’t offer to help.
“This is a Mercator Foundry Yards Class 12 light freighter, is it not?” said Roanna, looking around the gray metal corridor.
“Class 9,” said March. Heath got the bags onto the deck.
“Ah,” said Roanna. “I’ve inspected a lot of ships during their departure ceremonies, but never a Class 9 freighter.”
“Your cabin is there,” said March, pointing at one of the doors in the dorsal corridor, “and yours, Lieutenant Heath, is there.” They would be Spartan compared to what someone like Roanna would be used to, but thanks to the ship’s maintenance drones, at least it would be clean. “Vigil?”
“Yes, Captain March?” came the pseudointelligence’s voice over the speakers.
“This is Lady Roanna Vindex and Lieutenant Samuel Heath,” said March. “They are guests. Give them guest access level three.”
“Of course, Captain March,” said Vigil.
That would give them access to the cabins and the galley, and it would permit them to exit the ship, though Vigil would send a notification to March if they did. If Roanna and Heath tried to access the flight cabin, the engine room, the cargo hold, the armory, or any of the vital systems, Vigil would lock them out and notify March.
“I suggest you get some sleep,” said March. “It was a long day, and the next few days are likely to be longer. If you need me, speak to Vigil, and she will call me.”
“Yes, of course,” said Roanna. “Thank you, Captain March, for all your assistance. Good night.”
March inclined his head. “Good night.”
“Good night, Sam,” said Roanna. She smiled, picked up her travel bag, and disappeared into the cabin, the door sliding shut behind her. Heath hesitated, looking at the closed door as if he expected her to invite him in after her. Then he shook his head, picked up his bag, and vanished into the other cabin.
March went to the flight cabin and dropped into the pilot’s chair, bringing up the diagnostic displays. All systems were functional and on standby. March scrolled through the sensor logs and camera feeds, but Vigil had recorded no signs of sabotage. No one had even approached the Tiger, save for the bay drones that had hooked up the fuel lines to replenish the ship’s dark matter reactor and repaired some minor damage to the ship’s armor plating.
At least March had gotten some value for his bribe money.
He exited the ship and did a visual inspection of the hull and landing struts, but found no trace of bombs or sabotage. So far, at least, Lorre’s bag of dirty tricks had not extended to attacking the Tiger. March had no doubt that would change.
He returned to the ship and sealed the airlock behind him, instructing Vigil to keep watch for any saboteurs. March knew he ought to go to sleep, but he found himself restless. Mostly it was because he did not yet understand the enemy’s plan. Too many things did not add up and did not make sense. March wanted to go for a walk, but leaving Roanna and Heath unattended aboard the Tiger would be a bad idea.
Instead, March went to his cabin, donned a T-shirt, loose pants, and exercise shoes, and went to the ship’s gym.
He started off with a two-mile sprint on the treadmill, getting his heart rate up. Once that was finished, he climbed down and walked to the weight rack.
“Vigil,” said March, wiping some sweat from his forehead. “One hundred and fifty percent gravity, please.”
“Exercise at this hour of the night is inadvisable,” said Vigil. “Sleep is more conducive to optimal health, Captain March.”
“Noted, thank you,” said March.
The lights dimmed at a little, and the gravitics increased in strength. March grunted, bracing himself against the increased weight, then nodded and began his standard strength training routine. After he finished his deadlifts, his shirt was soaked with sweat, so he peeled it off, hung it on the side of the treadmill, and started his military presses. As ever, lifting weights required careful concentration. His left arm was vastly more powerful than his right, but he wanted to make his right arm as strong as possible. That meant carefully adjusting the weight load on his left arm while letting his right arm do as much of the work as possible.
March set the bar back into the rack, the bench cold against the skin of his back, and the door hissed open.
He looked to the left as Roanna stepped into the room, and her eyes went wide at the enhanced gravity, a gasp of pain escaping from her lips.
The lights went brighter, and the gym resumed normal gravity. As ever, for a moment March suddenly felt as if he was flying from the sudden reduction of weight, but he raced across the gym and caught Roanna’s arm before she fell.
“Thank you,” said Roanna, breathing hard. “I…don’t know what happened…”
“The gravity was heightened,” said March. “If you’re not ready for it, you could snap your ankle like a twig.” He scowled at her. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
She blanched at his anger. “I couldn’t sleep. I asked your computer, and she said the ship has a gym. I figured a run would clear my head, so…”
“Fine,” said March.
His brain caught up with his alarm, and he noticed that she had changed to exercise clothes, a tank top and a pair of shorts. The garments were snug, and they fit her well. He was holding her left arm with his right hand, and the skin felt smooth and warm beneath his fingers. Belatedly he remembered that he had taken his shirt off.
A wave of chagrin went through him. March hated for anyone to see him in any state of undress. It wasn’t out of modesty, or self-consciousness, or shame.
It was for a far more obvious reason.
Roanna’s eyes went wide, blue and stark against her pale face.
“What happened to you?” whispered Roanna.
Whenever he was in any state of undress, his scars were visible, and he hated to look at them.
His left arm was metal, but his shoulder was a mixture of metal and flesh and bone, the skin where the metal arm joined the flesh gnarled with old scars. A larger Y-shaped scar went down both sides of his chest and his stomach, stopping an inch or so below his navel. He had seen enough dead men to know that autopsied corpses had exactly that scar on their torsos. The surgeons of the Final Consciousness were efficient and far more skilled than any other surgeons among the starfaring human nations, but they were not concerned about aesthetics.
“Use the treadmill if you want,” said March, releasing her arm. “Just be sure to knock next time. My superiors sent me to fly you back to Antioch Station, not to break your damned ankle.”