by Blaze Ward
The mark of a well–trained crew, and a well–prepared team.
“Sensors,” he called to the room, “what is the unknown vessel?”
“Estimated schematics coming up now, sir,” the man replied, pushing buttons and scrolling through lists on his own screen. The system projection shifted to one side as a new image took center stage.
It was a small vessel, a rough rectangular tube that opened like a mouth at the bow and stayed squared off at the stern, wrapped around three squat, powerful engines. It wasn’t a model Emmerich was particularly familiar with, but there were only so many ways to assemble a small–crew asteroid mining craft.
The pilot would normally fly to an interesting–looking point in a field, set the ship to orbiting in pace with the rocks around it, and then open the mouth. He would climb into an armoured spacesuit, almost a pocket spaceship in its own right, and exit the airlock from the ship’s “stomach” into its mouth via something that functioned like a throat in reverse, and go to work. Depending on the nature of the prospecting, a miner might stay in his suit for several days at a time, not bothering to lock back into atmosphere, and instead sleeping rough.
Wildcatters like that were hard men, and occasionally women, but not a threat to this squadron. At most, a ship like that might have a short–range cutting beam designed to slice up medium–sized rocks for transport, or to drill into the big ones so that they could be easily assayed for specific gravity.
It was just bad luck that such a prospector was here already. He had probably maneuvered as quietly as he could to get to this position.
“Sensors,” Emmerich said. “What is the ship’s current orientation?”
“Pointed out–system and already accelerating, sir,” came the instant reply.
Yes. He had seen what he wanted, scanned everything once to confirm it, and was running like hell for the authorities at Ballard, the nearest planet, to report an Imperial invasion. Entirely proper, but the authorities already knew he was coming. All this man could do was confirm the timing and strength. Little good it would do her.
Emmerich nodded to himself. “Captain Baumgärtner,” he said loud enough to be heard by the men around them. “Stand the squadron down for now. Have engineering calculate the best flight time for that class of vessel to Ballard. He will be slower transiting than we will be. Plot a departure that will have this squadron arrive at the edge of the Ballard system two hours after the prospector arrives.”
“Two hours, Admiral?” his aide confirmed.
“Correct. Enough time for the defenders to be roused to a point of high functionality, and just enough time for that edge to wear off. At the same time, not long enough for Keller to be able to do anything useful with the information she receives, before it becomes superfluous. I will be in my quarters.”
“Acknowledged, Admiral.”
Emmerich made his way back to his office. Very shortly, he and Keller would face each other for the last time. He could already hear the opening arias begin to play in his head.
Chapter XXXII
Date of the Republic June 15, 394 Alexandria Station, Ballard
Moirrey listened intently as the DropShip clanked and clunked and wiggled into position, backing slowly and carefully, the docking airlock tube extended like a thumb from the side of the vessel. Gaucho was handling this like mom’s fine crystal today, rather than his normal hit–and–run kind of flying.
She unlocked her harness and stood up, nodding at Yeoman Arlo seated across from her. It was weird to outrank him. And to be in charge. And to be acting like a grown–up. Totally silly. But the dragoon had insisted. If the saboteur were still gonna be running ‘bouts, she had to have someone with her. Jackson Tawfeek might have been more fun to hang out with, but Vo Arlo were a much fiercer lookin’ dude, especially today.
Over his battlesuit, he had strapped a pistol, a knife, another knife, a couple of stun grenades, and a carbine pulse rifle. She was pretty sure he had more guns in the backpack at his feet. Plus Creator–only–knows what else.
“We invadin’ Guatemala, Arlo?” she asked with a smile.
He grinned back at her as he stood up.
From across the aisle, her eyes were about level with the middle of the chest when he did that.
“No, sir,” he sassed her back. “Wouldn’t need this much gear for a planetary drop.”
Sir. Her? Really? Weird. More weird. What silly person put her in charge? Oh. Right. Lady Keller. The Sentience. The Red Admiral.
Moirrey felt her smile slide off her face like a cake left out in the rain.
Not fun.
“You ready?” she asked, surprised at how serious and grown–up her voice sounded. Obviously, if this kept up, she were gon’ need to break out the glitter paint and commit some graffiti down in engineering soon.
It was the only cure fer serious.
“I have a firearm for you as well, sir,” Arlo said.
His face got serious too. Maybe they were gonna hafta go get matching tattoos, when it was all done. Kitties or something.
“Don’t want it, Vo,” Moirrey replied. “If you can’t handle the bad guy, what makes you think I can?”
“You’re Moirrey, sir.”
“Very funny, Arlo.”
“Passengers please prepare to debark,” Gaucho called from his flight deck, politely interrupting the conversation.
Politely? Gaucho? Did she step through a mirror or something? Where was the white rabbit?
Moirrey squared her shoulders as the inner airlock door chirped and the lights turned green. With a soft puff of equalizing pressure, the door opened outward into the station’s airlock.
Moirrey started to take a step, but Arlo was suddenly there in her way, stepping forward.
“Hey,” she squeaked, but the big man just turned and looked down at her, looming with his suddenly–massive presence.
“No, sir,” he said calmly, professionally. “I lead.”
She nearly growled at him.
She weren’t no fine–china lady, fragile and stuff, needin’ to be escorted everywhere and protected. Except she was. Navin the Black had said so.
Crap.
Moirrey settled for a good, old–fashioned harrumph at him. At both of them. At everyone.
She couldn’t see anything around Arlo, either. He were wider as well as taller. ‘Course, he massed her at least twice, even without all the guns and stuff.
“Centurion Kermode?” a man’s voice called from down the corridor as they emerged.
“Negative, sir,” Arlo replied. “Yeoman Arlo, Auberon security.”
“Where’s the centurion?”
Moirrey decided she’d had enough.
“Outtamyway, yabiglummox.” She did growl this time. She even tried to push Arlo to one side, but it were like pushing Cayenne out of her way. “I’m Kermode.”
“Centurion, I’m Doctor Cassidy Crncevic.”
Dr. Crncevic? What were the odds of finding someone else with that name here?
Moirrey finally, FINALLY, managed to get enough clearance around Arlo to see the man talking.
He were tall and kinda gangly, with chocolate dark skin and darker hair, buzzed very short. He even looked like his dad in the face, but he was obviously a scholar, and not a fleet marine, like his sister, or his mom. Or his dad, fleet Senior Centurion Phillip Navin Crncevic, commonly referred to by the rest o’ Auberon’s crew, and a good chunk of the fleet, as Navin the Black, like he were an old–fashioned pirate, er somethin’.
He might be. But his son were a geek. A Librarian, even.
“Hiya, Doc,” she said, finally squirming the rest of the way around Arlo so she could talk to the man like proper folks.
She felt like she were in the land of the giant folk again. Cassidy Crncevic had his dad’s height, nearly two meters tall, but none of his mass. Still, Arlo was almost eyeball–to–eyeball with him, while she was head, neck, shoulders, and then some shorter.
Maybe she should invent
herself some telescoping boots, like that hero in the cartoon, so she could be as tall as them. Maybe. Next week. She made a note to herself.
Moirrey shook his hand like proper folks. He weren’t fleet, so there wouldn’t be salutes, or any of that silliness.
“Glad to finally meet you, Centurion,” the doc said. “And congratulations on the promotion. I try to follow things from my father’s frequent letters, but you outran your own news.”
Moirrey blushed. He wouldn’t have heard about Petron yet, either. Hopefully.
“So what’s the plan?” she asked.
“I volunteered to be your liaison on station,” he replied. “Right now, that means I need to escort you down to the secured areas of the station to talk to Suvi. Station security is making another sweep through the station, trying to locate our saboteur.”
“Secured?” Arlo was suddenly looming again. She were sure he must practice that in the mirror every morning to get it that right at the drop of a hat.
“Correct,” the doc said. “The station has been evacuated of all civilians except ourselves and the university police department. We assume that the saboteur is still on the platform somewhere, but searches so far have been unsuccessful.”
Moirrey heard the sound of a pistol safety clicking off as Arlo bristled.
“Really, Mr. Arlo?” Crncevic asked dryly. “Is that necessary? This is a mall, not a combat zone.”
“Right now,” Arlo replied quietly, “it’s a hostage situation, Dr. Crncevic. I recommend you start treating it as such,”
Moirrey felt a shiver race down her spine as Arlo set off, trying to look all directions at once.
This had suddenly changed from an adventure into a war.
Ξ
Suvi waited.
So much of her life, her plans, her very fate was out of her hands at this point. She was trapped on a small portion of a very old, unarmed orbital platform with an incoming Imperial fleet, a faceless assassin, and a university police department that reminded her of the keystone kops. Not that there was anyone else alive who would get that reference without her explaining it to them. Even for her, it was ancient history, dating back to the dawn of industrial entertainment, before even space flight.
Kigali had done some good, getting fleet engineers sent over, but they were likely too little, too late.
That left Centurion Kermode. The engineer from Auberon that everyone referred to simply as Moirrey.
Station security had thoughtfully sent along a confirmation that Auberon’s shuttle had docked, made its delivery, and departed. Presumably, it was a twenty–minute walk down back corridors to reach the areas under Suvi’s observation net.
Not long now.
There.
Dr. Cassidy Crncevic was tall as modern humans went. The man immediately behind him was almost as tall, and massed probably twice as much. To her, he practically screamed Concord Line Marine, a designation so archaic as to mark Suvi’s own age. The woman at the rear would be centurion Kermode. Moirrey. The wizard on whose shoulders so much of their future rested.
She was tiny.
Suvi’s self–image projected a relative scale that put her at 1.75 meters tall. Slightly above average for a female of the early Concord era.
Moirrey Kermode might come up to her nose.
In heels.
Finally, they crossed into the area where Suvi could see everything. They would need to come at least another section forward and down a deck before she could control anything, but at least here they should be safe enough.
“Good afternoon,” Suvi said over her speakers. “Thank you, Dr. Crncevic for your help. Could you please introduce me to our guests?”
Cassidy had that same habit many humans had when dealing with her. He looked vaguely up and glanced for the cameras in the corners of the room, a work area for the facilities teams. Here, many of the video input systems were so small as to be invisible.
“Suvi, this is Centurion Moirrey Kermode and her bodyguard, Yeoman Vo Arlo.”
“Greetings,” Suvi responded. “Yeoman, what are your ratings?”
Might as well let him know that she was fleet. It would make things easier going forward.
“Close combat, small arms, long arms, and EO, sir,” the marine answered quickly. “First rank, expert, and instructor in the above. In addition, archaic weapons, motor pool driver: land and maritime, mechanic, medic, and psych ops. Generally first rank and above.”
And he was just a yeoman? Apparently, Doctor Crncevic’s father lived up to his legend. As did Auberon.
“Archaic weapons?” Suvi inquired, intrigued.
That could be anything. Human history was amazingly rich with possibilities.
“Japanese kendo and technical archery, sir.”
So. Bushi. And a term that he might understand, given his probable instructor. Warrior, to use the classical term.
“Very interesting, Yeoman,” she replied. “We shall have to talk some time. And your security clearance?”
“Top, sir.”
Suvi considered her options. She could order the man to keep her secrets with a pretty good bet he would. At least long enough. She hoped.
“Dr. Crncevic,” Suvi continued, dropping her voice down to a conspiratorial level. “I will need to extract a promise from you that you will have to carry to your grave. And I must do so before I can tell you anything.”
Suvi dialed in every sensor she had available in the room. Cassidy would probably have swallowed his tongue if he knew how hard and wide he was being probed at this moment. Heart rate. Respiration. Perspiration. Balance tracking for fight–or–flight. If he would stand still, she could zero in on his pupils better than the sixty frames per second she could get now.
Once upon a time, she had been taught to play poker by a master human player, a goofball ex–Concord fleet officer who later became a semi–successful–if–accidental pirate. But those were other stories nobody today knew.
Poker required psychology. Dr. Cassidy Crncevic was having his entire psyche tasted right now. He either passed all of her tests, or got sent on his merry way. This was too important to risk on anything less than a sure bet.
Cassidy got a canny look in his eye. Almost cagey. His heart rate surged as well, but not into ranges that were dangerous for him.
Or her.
“Suvi,” he replied slowly, carefully. “Will we be committing treason against the Republic?”
She liked the way he emphasized that word. It left her linguistic wiggle room with a man she rather liked and respected.
“No, Dr. Crncevic,” she replied, equally careful with her tone. “What I will propose is merely criminal. It does not rise to the level of treason.”
He smiled warmly at her. She was reminded again of the regular pleasant morning banter with this man, before most of the rest of his team staggered in to mission control for their first coffee.
“Then you have my promise, Suvi,” he said simply. “I will take your secrets to my grave.”
And he would. His heart rate agreed, as did his pupils.
It was nice having friends.
“Thank you, Cassidy,” she said.
It was the first time she publically used his given name. Aquitaine culture had a level of reserve in personal interactions that it had not inherited from the Concord. First names were for family and intimate comrades. He had just moved into a very intimate circle. It was appropriate.
After all, they might all hang together.
She was rewarded by a faint blush against his very dark skin. Almost imperceptible, but welcome nonetheless.
“You’re very welcome, Suvi.”
Finally, she turned her attention to the other woman in the room.
Before Suvi could speak, Moirrey stepped forward and raised her chin. It was almost a defiant challenge, although to whom was an open question.
“Afore ye ask, ma’am,” Moirrey began, speaking to the two men as much as to her, “my orders were dead specific.”
Suvi watched her turn to the marine and glare at him from under beetled brows. It was like watching a mouse snarl at a cat. The cat was almost as surprised as she was.
“Command Centurion Keller ordered me to provide Suvi with whatever assistance she required to escape, Yeoman Arlo. An’ Keller were put in charge of martial law here by the Senate itself. Suvi’s life is more important than any of ours. You will follow all orders from me or Suvi as if they came from Commander Keller or the Republic Senate. Do you understand?”
Yes, the cat was as surprised as she was. But he recovered almost as fast.
“Yes, sir,” Arlo replied quietly, unconsciously coming to attention as he did.
Moirrey turned to what she apparently thought was the right direction. Suvi watched her transform from a terrible task–master into something that might be classified as a juvenile delinquent, in the space of two heartbeats. Her smile might have lit up a smaller room all by itself.
“So, ma’am,” the engineer asked. “How’s abouts we commits some mischief?”
Chapter XXXIII
Date of the Republic June 16, 394 Above Ballard
“Squadron, this is Strnad aboard Auberon. I have the flag,” Jessica heard Tamara Strnad’s calm voice suddenly boom out of the speaker on her desk. “All hands to battle stations.”
The words from her tactical officer brought Jessica up off her rack from out of a dead sleep and to the door of her cabin in two strides.
Training was a wonderful thing. Jessica opened the door and found that her outer tunic and shoes had materialized in her hands like magic from where she had left them when she laid down to nap. The lights in the hallway took on a red hue as a siren slowly wound itself from normal to wake–the–dead levels before winding back down.
Enej was already seated when she made it to the flag bridge.
“Status?” she called as she raced to the seat at the big conference table with the holographic projector that she called home. Enej sat to one side, the only person at the table with her, while three other crew members worked at stations around the outside wall of the room, facing away from her. They were always so quiet that she often forgot they were there, but any need she expressed turned into action immediately.