The Price of Peace

by Mike Moscoe

  “Can you give one good reason I should provide them to you?”

  “Ma’am, when you came alongside, you asked for housekeeping support. Among the modifications proposed for your ship is doubling its frozen food storage capacity. That will require running more chilling ducts through the spaces next to your brig. The brig’s being moved forward two frames and down a deck. So we’re here to take care of your prisoners while your brig is out of commission.”

  “You know a hell of a lot about my overhaul.”

  “Ma’am, the yard just advised us of the nature of your overhaul and requested that we take custody of your prisoners for the time being.” Howdon’s smile was pure innocence. Izzy doubted he’d been that innocent on his first day at kindergarten.

  “That might account for the prisoners. Not the evidence.”

  “But, of course, ma’am,” the prosecutor cut in. “They go hand in hand.”

  “Copies,” Trouble drawled, “not the originals.”

  Caught, the special agent and the prosecutor exchanged worried glances. Izzy and Trouble enjoyed a smile. Now that the air was clear, this shouldn’t take long.

  Howdon studied his watch, seemed to be counting the seconds. Before Izzy could wonder what for, her comm buzzed. “Captain, we got a call for you.”

  “I’m busy,” she snapped. “Take a message and I’ll call back.” That was standard procedure when she was occupied. Some trainee must be standing watch in the radio shack.

  “Skipper”—now she recognized Sparks’ voice—“you told us to pass a call from Anderson right through to you.”

  Now Howdon’s and his sidekick’s mouths were edging toward a grin. Captain Anderson had been her commanding officer during the recent unpleasantness. He was about the only thing that made the 97th Defense Brigade sufferable. His retirement to Wardhaven and the chance to catch up on old times with him was the only pleasant possibility this yard period offered. She’d called him as soon as phone lines had been brought aboard last night. A secretary assured her he was unavailable and might be for some time. She’d asked for a call back as soon as possible. Now was a hell of a time to get it.

  “Put Andy through,” she said.

  “Hi, Izzy. How’s Navy life?” The words were pure Andy, but the voice might as well have been chalk scratching down a slate.

  “Elie, what the hell are you doing here?” If Andy was the best of the 97th, Elie Miller was the worst. A college professor drafted and put in charge of their sensors, she could not open her mouth without lecturing or talk without a flip chart to draw on. Only Andy’s sense of humor, and Izzy’s lack of hundred-percent certainty she could dispose of the body, had kept Elie alive for the three-month campaign on Elmo Four.

  “Andy’s secretary told me you wanted to talk to him. He’s off-planet for a while. I don’t know when he’ll be back. We really need to talk.”

  “About?” If the list of things she wanted to talk over with Andy was as endless as the beer they’d drink, the list she’d share with Elie was as dry as a freshly washed stein.

  There was a long pause; then, with a deep sigh, words cascaded from the comm link. “Listen, Izzy, I know we didn’t get along very well. But you have to know you’re not the only one chasing what you’re after right now. You’ve got a lot of allies, if you just know where to look. The uniforms may be the wrong color per recent memory, but yesterday’s enemy could be today’s friend, and vice versa. Could we meet for supper?”

  Izzy glanced at her to-do list for today. She hadn’t gotten a damn thing done that was scheduled; wrestling alligators had eaten up every second. She didn’t have time for supper, certainly not to drop down to the planet. “Elie, I’d love to, but I’m kind of busy. Don’t have time for a dirtside visit today.”

  “That’s fine. I’m on the station. Meet you at the Wharf Rat in half an hour.”

  Izzy never said the woman wasn’t smart. And, if she went out to supper, that just might help her get these gumshoes off her ship. She stood. “Gentlemen, we seem to be at an impasse for the moment. Why don’t you take it up with your superiors in the morning? I doubt we’ll tear the brig down tonight.”

  “No problem, ma’am,” Howdon agreed, far too quickly. Elie, who have you sold your soul to this time?

  “Trouble, I want you and a couple of marines with me for dinner. Sidearms but civilian clothes. No use flashing uniforms in recently hostile territory. Stan, you’ve got the ship. Lock her down tight after I depart. I don’t want any more people wandering aboard. Post marines in full combat kits at each of the locks. Issue live ammo. Anything I missed, Trouble?”

  “No, ma’am. That ought to start the war up again just fine.”

  • • •

  Thirty minutes later, Trouble reported to the quarterdeck in slacks and a sports coat, two similarly clad marines beside him. Between their crewcuts and shoulder holsters, he doubted a casual observer would identify them as marines for at least fifteen seconds. It didn’t help when they followed the skipper off the ship and immediately fell in step. Well, all the skipper asked for was clothing, not disguises.

  “I see you brought the marines,” Elie Miller remarked as Izzy and three towering males were shown to the table where the woman sat alone. With his eyes, Trouble directed his two men to the next table. They went, none too sure what was expected of them. Bodyguarding had never been a part of their tactical training. It hadn’t been in Trouble’s, either, but the Book said to improvise; he was doing his best.

  “I often find them better conversation,” Izzy shot back. Trouble didn’t know he’d been invited to a cat fight. Did his duty extend to protecting the skipper from a clawing she started? For a moment’s diversion, he glanced at the menu. He spotted one item he could identify and probably afford.

  “Anything good on the menu?” he asked.

  “Several things,” Elie assured him, distracted for the moment as she glanced around the room. Then she put her hands on the table, leaned forward, and fixed the skipper with the most sincere eyes Trouble had ever seen on a woman. “I want to thank you, Izzy, and apologize.”

  The skipper had been about to say something; instead, she nearly fell out of her chair. Never had he seen a starship captain with the wind taken out of her sails so thoroughly. “Thank me?”

  “Yes. I’d spent my whole life in school or university, student or teacher. I can’t think of any time I ever had to deal with the real world. The world where you can’t meditate on a problem for however long you want, where you need something now that’s good enough, not tomorrow that’s perfect. You made me madder than hell.” That brought a chuckle from the skipper.

  “Yes, I used to try to get to Andy any time but when you were around. But, damn it, you were right. I did take too long to spit it out, and I always hedged anything I said. It must have been hell on you.”

  “I didn’t leave much doubt about that, did I?”

  “No, and it was the honest feedback I needed. I could never have done the job I’m doing here, worked with the people I have to work with daily, if you hadn’t softened my edges.”

  “And I’m just the abrasive character to sand down rough spots,” Izzy drawled. “Okay, now that we’ve had our little love fest, what are you after?” Damn, but the skipper was a hard case. Throw her a kiss, she’d toss back a hand grenade.

  Elie studied her hands for a moment, then went on as if she hadn’t heard the last remark. “Wardhaven hired Andy and me to work in their Ministry of Science and Technology. Andy’s heading up the Bureau of Exploration. I’m in charge of Technological Review. I study research proposals and decide which ones deserve some of the money that’s being switched from the military budget to the R&D side. Deal with a lot of prima donnas that remind me of myself. How do you decide what to fund? What has a good chance? What is something we really need? Puts me in contact with a lot of people. I’ve learned a lot more than I ever did in university. World’s quite complex, you know.”

  “Seems I mentioned that a f
ew times,” Izzy said dryly. Still, the skipper was paying attention.

  “You should meet some of the people I’ve gotten to know.”

  “I’m a bit busy. Got a boat that’s in desperate need of an overhaul and isn’t getting nearly what it deserves.”

  “I know. Getting it ready for its next fight may be more critical than even you imagine.”

  “Next fight?” Trouble could be very relaxed gabbing about his last fight, or anything that was of purely historical interest. You start talking about his next one, and he got very, personally, interested. The skipper, too.

  “I would very much appreciate it if you could meet some of my new associates.”

  “When?”

  “Right now. They are quite close.” Izzy moved forward in her chair. Trouble got ready to stand. “Some of them are rather allergic to weapons they don’t personally control. Would you mind leaving your beef trust behind?”

  “Trouble goes with me.” Izzy’s voice was deadpan.

  “It always has.” Elie blinked in puzzlement.

  “Lieutenant Tordon, usually known as Trouble.” Izzy indicated the marine. He nodded his head.

  Elie glanced at him, then studied the comm link at her wrist. “Lieutenant, would you mind leaving behind your weapons?”

  Trouble noted the use of the plural. Izzy gave him a short nod. He removed the service automatic from his breast holster. Then he slowly removed the needle gun from his back belt. When Elie kept looking at him, he added the short knife from his shoe and the longer one from beneath his collar.

  “Trouble recently spent a few days’ involuntary leave with some slavers,” Izzy drawled. “You’ll excuse his tendency to overcompensate for those days of being disarmed.”

  “I will, but…” Elie’s glance went from her comm link to Trouble and back again. With a groan, he unclipped the brass knuckles from the back of his belt buckle.

  “You can keep that. It’s the darts in your shirt collar they want.” With a scowl, Trouble put back the knuckles and carefully removed the four sleepy darts that helped keep his collar in place.

  “Damn good system your friends got,” he growled.

  Now Elie stood up. “If you’ll follow me.”

  A word from the skipper kept the marines in their seats as she and Trouble followed the woman out the back. For the next five minutes they went left or right at corners in no particular pattern. They rode several elevators, at least one of which had no numbers and moved without Elie punching a button.

  “You can quit now, Professor. I’m totally lost,” Izzy growled.

  “This isn’t for you. We keep this up until my associate is sure we have lost any tail you or I may have had.”

  “Paranoid bunch you’ve traveling with,” Izzy answered.

  “They lived through Unity, and survived a Society admiral ordering all life on this planet vaporized.”

  “A mistake,” Izzy said, but her voice didn’t sound as sure as it usually did.

  “I’d value your opinion on that after you’re fully briefed.” Elie’s voice held no sarcasm. The next turn brought them onto a busy concourse; they wound their way down and across it. A woman in a dowdy purple dress bumped into Elie. The professor followed that woman through a small door, down a hall, and into another elevator. The woman motioned them in, but did not follow. There were no controls.

  • • •

  Izzy was getting damn tired of this runaround. She’d had a long, nonproductive day and didn’t need to play silly-assed games to work up an appetite. She was about to start chewing on Elie when the elevator opened into a small dining room with a round table set for five. Several dishes rested on a lazy Susan in the center of the table. The smell was powerfully oriental and spicy. A large man in a rumpled suit already sat facing them. A tall, thin man stood to his left.

  “Come in, come in, I’m Ernest Nuu,” he announced cheerfully, “the owner of the yard that’s to repair your ship. Captain, this is my friend.” His hand indicated the seated individual, but he did not give a name. “You’ve already met Elie. No need to introduce yourselves. We have already met.” A second wave of the hand indicated a wall of monitors, one of which showed the table at the Wharf Rat where all this had started.

  “Quite a collection of toys you had, marine.” The large man smiled. “I collect toys like those.” The voice, the eyes told Izzy this fellow collected a lot of things; people, weapons, bodies. His basement probably was quite an interesting place come spring cleaning. Did he ever do a garage sale?

  Elie served herself from several plates on the lazy Susan. The “toy collector” went next, careful to mix the steamed or wokked vegetables and meats together. Mr. Nuu followed his lead. If any part of the meals were drugged, they’d been thoroughly mixed. Had they taken an antidote? Did he trust his thugs to remove him safely, while tossing Trouble and her down a black hole? Trouble served himself; Izzy followed suit. The food was quite tasty—a bit hot, but that was life.

  “You said you wanted to share some things.” Izzy got down to business as she took her first mouthful.

  “But I don’t want to lecture,” Elie sighed.

  “Do you believe in black and white?” The toy man asked around a huge forkload of chicken and oriental vegetables.

  “And three or five shades of gray,” Izzy added.

  “Very good.” The big man beamed. “I bet you even have been known to do things for several competing reasons.”

  “Occasionally.” Izzy hoped this little dance wouldn’t take forever.

  “Good. Then you’ll understand that our recent war was many things to many people. On the surface, it was a raw grab for power by President Urm and his Unity thugs, from rich Earth’s view point. Out among the poor rim worlds, it was a struggle against an oppressive Earth that kept us weak and in debt. I’m sure you know of those opinions.”

  “Was in all the papers,” Izzy said dryly.

  “Slipping around the fringe of the spotlight were several other motivations for the war, less clear, less worthy of dying for. Efforts by certain financial centers to gain advantages in the new order that peace would bring.”

  “I’ve drunk a few beers in bull sessions on that idea. Nobody had proof that would interest a court.”

  “Precisely. Courts are difficult things to interest, and legions of people make their living assuring that what is done does not rise to their level of interest. Unfortunately, Wardhaven has not been able to stay uninterested. When an admiral orders a billion people vaporized, myself included, I become supremely interested.”

  “But what’s-his-name was a mistake. His orders were canceled, he’s…” Izzy ground to a halt, suddenly very aware that what she thought was true might not be so.

  “Vanished. Yes, we can’t seem to find anything out about Mr. Whitebred’s whereabouts. And believe me, we have tried.”

  Izzy was getting tired of all this beating around the bush. “Is there a purpose to this history lesson?”

  “I assure you, I have no time to waste on history. You wanted to talk to your friend, Andy. He is not here. Presently, he’s providing off-planet oversight to a search for a ship that went missing on a routine six-day hop. Mr. Nuu’s first grandchild is due in five months. His son-in-law was on that ship. Son-in-law is also Wardhaven’s Minister of Science and Technology. We want him back.”

  “I don’t see the connection.”

  “The ship that disappeared had been Mr. Whitebred’s flagship. We suspect he left a little something behind for the crew to remember him by. At least as long as they have oxygen. That is one of many items that piqued our interest. Several ships from Wardhaven have disappeared in what has come to be called pirate-infested space. Now you come to us with word that people are being kidnapped on rim worlds and transported off them to serve some purpose. Captain, I find all of this most puzzling, and I do not like puzzles. Do you?”

  Izzy let the list of recent crimes roll around her head for a long moment. Alone, each was a puzzle. Form
ed up in ranks for inspection, they were still a puzzle, but a big, ugly puzzle. “No. I don’t like puzzles either.”

  “Have you cracked the files you captured on Hurtford Corner?”

  “No,” Izzy spat.

  “Then it seems to me that we both face the same distasteful puzzles. What is going on? What is it that we are not supposed to be concerned about, but are? Can we work together?”

  Izzy had been expecting that. She shook her head. “I’ve got a few questions of my own. Why are you talking to me, a lowly cruiser captain? Why don’t I see anyone else from my government at this table? If you are so concerned, why haven’t you taken it up with my superiors? I was born with the chain of command wrapped around my neck. I’ve grown attached to it. This doesn’t fit anywhere on that chain.”

  “Quite correct, Captain, this doesn’t fit anywhere in that chain. After studying the chain of events that put Admiral Whitebred speeding toward Wardhaven with a ship full of relativity bombs, I am very careful about the chains I become entangled in. You have demonstrated a personal commitment to destroying pirates and slavers. Even burned one of the bastards. You are here. I would rather deal with you than work through channels with trap doors that go I know not where. You no doubt have felt the full intensity of the concern that your superiors have for the well-being of your command. Do you find it strange that you received orders for an overhaul quite suddenly after you stumbled into the hostage situation on Hurtford Corner?” The acid of his words hung for only a moment, etching itself into Izzy.

  “My orders were to report here immediately.”

  “Yet the overhaul was not to begin for a month. Someone did not want you in orbit above Hurtford Corner.”

  “Who?”

  “I do not know,” the spy answered.

  Izzy did not like the taste of this new piece of the puzzle. She was also tired of guessing games. “Sir, if I had wanted to be a horse trader, I wouldn’t have joined the Navy. Shall we cut through all the crap? What do you want, and why should I care?”

  The big man pushed back from the table, folded his napkin, and chuckled. “Captain, I am not a horse trader. You are an honorable officer. You have no personal price. Yet we both have needs. I think they are the same. I have things I can offer that I believe you, as captain of a man-of-war, can accept.