by Mike Kupari
“All I want,” the captain added, “is to bring my brother home safely. I would like this matter to be resolved as quickly and painlessly as possible.”
“And my associates,” Cecil interjected. “Zak Mesa and Anna Kay.”
“Yes, yes,” Lang said, silencing Cecil. He looked away from the screen, presumably at the offer Mordecai had sent, but seemed nonplussed. “Captain, that is indeed a generous offer, but I have more money than I can spend on Zanzibar as is.”
Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “Then what is it, exactly, you want?”
Lang leaned in toward the camera. “What I want, Captain, is Freeport. What I need in order to get what I want are weapons. Modern weapons, the kind you can’t get on this world. Powered armor. Plasma weapons. Long-range missiles. This planet is nothing but chaos and squalor. I can change that. I have the will, and the loyal followers, but I need better tools to do the job. Once it is over, there will be peace, and I will bring to Zanzibar prosperity that it hasn’t known in any of our lifetimes. With these weapons, I can not only take Freeport, but hold it. Defend it from off-world interlopers who come to steal our natural resources.”
The captain kept her game face on, but a quiet rage was boiling inside her. “I have spent over four thousand hours in transit, operating under the assumption that the payment you sought was money. At no point did you specify specific goods in exchange for Cecil. As such, I didn’t bring the specific goods you want. My cargo hold is full of the supplies I needed for this journey, not weapons for your army. What would you have me do, fly back to New Austin and buy the weapons you want?”
“No need for such hyperbole, Captain. I am not an unreasonable man, and I do not make unreasonable demands. Valuable trade goods have come into my possession. I have made deals for the tools that I need. However, because of Frank DeWitt’s cowardly defamation of my character, none of the ships at the spaceport will let me hire them, and I’d be hesitant to trust them with this cargo in any case. You,” he said, patting Cecil roughly on the shoulder, “you have cause to honor a deal.”
It was all Catherine could do to stop her hands from shaking with anger. “Very well,” she said calmly. “Send me the specifics of what you require.”
Lang tapped his screen, sending Catherine the requested data packet. “Excellent! If you do this thing for me, you will have your brother back, no worse for wear.” Cecil went to say something, but Lang hushed him. “I will demonstrate my sincerity. If nothing else, it will calm your brother down. I will send his assistants to Freeport to meet with you. Consider it a symbol of my good faith. They will carry with them the coordinates of where you will land your ship to collect my trade goods.”
Cecil’s mouth fell open. “My God, thank you. Thank you so much. I—”
Lang pushed him out of view of the camera, interrupting him. “Do not mistake my generosity for a lack of resolve, Captain. If you want your brother back, you will do as I ask.”
“I understand,” Catherine said, ice in her voice. “I need you to understand, Mr. Lang, that I will kill you if this is some kind of a trick.”
Lang laughed. “Many have tried, my dear Captain, many have tried. But you needn’t worry. Everything you need to know is in the packet I just sent. Your brother’s associates will arrive in the city within a day, and I will leave them with instructions to contact you.”
“I will have to come back to Freeport first,” she said. “The port services here are slow. It will take a few days to get the ship refitted for a long flight.”
From the look on his face, Catherine could tell that Lang didn’t like that. She expected him to tell her to wait, to come get his trade goods when she was ready to lift off, but he surprised her by just shrugging it off. “Very well. You should know, Captain, that I have people everywhere in Freeport. If it is you who tries to trick me, your ship will never leave this world. I promise you that.” The connection was cut.
“God damn it!” Catherine snarled, slamming a fist onto her armrest.
“Cap’n,” Mordecai asked, “do you have any idea what these trade goods are?”
“No, Mordecai, I do not, and I don’t care. Paying a ransom is one thing. I will be damned if I’m going to be an errand girl for that pompous ass, flying all over known space fetching weapons for his army!”
“There is another matter to consider, Kapitänin,” Wolfram said. “If we do equip his forces with weapons, and our involvement in the matter becomes public knowledge, our license to operate in Concordiat space could be revoked. There is a clause in the interstellar trade laws regarding the arming of brigands and terrorist groups. Aristotle Lang almost certainly meets that definition.”
“I’m aware, Wolfram. I’m not worried about the Concordiat. It’s the principle of the matter.”
Wolfram nodded. “We always knew this could happen.”
“Indeed, Cap’n,” Mordecai agreed. “He got greedy. He seems overconfident, though. Perhaps we can use this to our advantage?”
The captain sat quietly for a moment, brow furrowed in thought. “Perhaps we can, Mordecai,” she said. “Perhaps we can. Is Marcus Winchester back yet?”
“Negative.”
“Send him a message explaining everything that happened. Tell him I need him back here as soon as possible to begin contingency planning. Lang is in for a very rude surprise.”
“I just received a message from him, Kapitänin. He says that he has made contact with the Orlov refugees. Lana is being delivered to Sanctuary.”
Catherine rubbed her chin, thoughtfully. “Perhaps they can help us.”
* * *
Dressed in a long brown cloak, respirator, and tinted goggles, Catherine was indistinguishable from anyone else on Zanzibar. Away from the security of the ship, discretion was a necessity. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, and the people she was meeting didn’t want attention drawn to them, either.
Mazer Broadbent wanted to go along, to protect his captain if she insisted on leaving the ship, but Catherine had ordered him to stay behind. She didn’t trust the security of the ramshackle spaceport and wanted him there to handle any problems that might arise. Escorting her were three of her hired mercenaries: Marcus Winchester, Randall Markgraf, and Benjamin Halifax. All were dressed in similar garb as they quietly moved through a bustling bazaar, trying not to draw attention to themselves. They were led by the blue-haired prostitute that Marcus had made contact with. She, apparently, was a point of contact for Sanctuary.
As Danzig-5012 sunk below the horizon, the woman with blue hair led the spacers away from the noise and crowds of the market, into the slums that surrounded it. She turned down a rapidly darkening alley and motioned for the off-worlders to stay behind. A lone figure was waiting for them. The man was also cloaked and masked, and was leaning against a wall. The woman, Lucy, went forward and spoke with him quietly. After a few moments, she motioned for Catherine and her men to approach.
“This is where I leave you,” Lucy said. “This is Strelok. He will take you the rest of the way.”
“Where are you taking us?” Catherine asked. She wanted these people’s help, so she didn’t want to sound too demanding, but the veteran spacer wasn’t about to let herself get complacent, either.
“To a safe place,” the man called Strelok responded, “where we can discuss matters.”
“I must go,” Lucy said. “Thank you for bringing Lana to us. She is among family here.” Without another word, she turned down the alley and walked away.
“Are you taking us to Sanctuary?” Marcus asked.
“No,” Strelok said. “We do not speak of that out here. We have a safe house nearby. Follow me, and do not draw attention to yourself. Aristotle Lang’s spies do not go where I am taking you, but it is not a safe place for off-worlders. Come.”
Forty-five minutes later, Catherine found herself inside a partially damaged building beneath the crumbling ruins of a highway overpass, on the very edge of Freeport. Her mercenary escorts had balked
when Strelok insisted that they disarm and submit to a weapons scan, but she ordered them to comply. No one was waiting for them in the main room of the building, but it was stocked with provisions and beds. There were no guards, but the off-worlders were tracked by a ceiling-mounted turret as Strelok led them into the building. He pushed open an ancient, creaking door and motioned for them to follow him down a flight of stairs.
One floor below was a small room filled with a cluttered mishmash of computers and communication equipment. At least a dozen screens illuminated the otherwise darkened room, as did a holotank. At the center of it all was a pale, skinny man with a headset over his eyes and ears, and cables leading into the back of his neck. Standing next to him was an older, silver-haired woman with a weapon in her hands and an unhappy expression on her face.
“Ah . . . Captain Catherine Blackwood, of the privateer ship Andromeda,” the wired man said, without turning his head in Catherine’s direction. An unkempt mop of hair hung down over his face and headset. “I’m glad to meet you.”
Strelok indicated the strange man plugged into his machines. “This is Piro, our—”
“Technomancer,” Piro interrupted. “I am a Technomancer. I am connected to every network on Zanzibar, every satellite, every ship in orbit. I go everywhere and see everything.”
Strelok sighed audibly through his mask. “No one actually calls him a technomancer.” The woman didn’t say anything, but she rolled her eyes.
“It’d catch on if you people would use it!” Piro protested.
“But he is very good at what he does,” Strelok said. “The best, in fact.”
“This is what I did for the Combine,” Piro said sadly, slowly moving a hand over his banks of screens. “I was the omnipresent eye of the state, always watching, always listening, always judging. One of thousands, tens of thousands.”
“That’s . . . unsettling,” Marcus said.
“You have no idea,” Piro replied, a hollow grin splitting his face. “It’s dehumanizing, even in a society that dehumanizes people as a matter of policy. But even the watchmen are watched in the Combine, and ultimately, all of us are guilty of crimes of thought in the eyes of the State. My new comrades here, they took me in, forgave my sins, gave me a home. So for them I do the only thing I know how to do. I watch over them, as I have been watching you.”
“Enough,” the woman said, slinging her weapon and stepping forward.
“This is Maggie,” Strelok said.
“Thank you for meeting with us,” Catherine said.
“We wouldn’t have,” Maggie admitted, “but you are not the only one to seek us out lately.”
“And it’s no coincidence,” Piro said. Video footage of Cecil’s assistant, Zak Mesa, appeared on one of his screens. “You are not the first to mention Cecil Blackwood.”
“He’s my brother,” Catherine said. “I came here to pay Lang’s ransom and take him home.”
“What do you want from us, then?” Maggie asked coldly.
Catherine studied the three Orlov refugees carefully before speaking. “Lang doesn’t want money,” she said. “He wants weapons. In order to get my brother back, I am to take trade goods to a designated meeting point and exchange them for heavy weaponry.”
“What kind of weaponry?” Maggie asked.
“Plasma weapons. Missiles. Powered armor.”
“I see,” she said.
“It is as we feared,” Piro said. “Mr. Mesa was correct.”
“Correct about what?” Catherine asked. “I don’t know this Zak Mesa, but Lang is releasing him to my custody as a sign of good faith.”
Strelok seemed pleased with that news, but didn’t elaborate. “He suggested that Lang would try to acquire weapons.”
“When was this Mesa fellow here?” Catherine asked. “And why?”
“That’s not important now,” Maggie said. “What is it that you want from us?”
“We need your help,” Catherine said. “I have no intention of arming a petty warlord like Aristotle Lang so he can take over this planet. That’s just what he means to do, too. He told me as much himself.”
“You mean to recover your brother by force,” Strelok said.
“I do,” Catherine said. “I don’t know where he’s being held. I was hoping that your organization would be able to help me locate him. I had my security officer put in a query with the Enforcers of Freeport, but they were of no help.”
“No, I do not expect they would be,” Maggie said thoughtfully. “This is all as we feared.”
“The weapons I’m to acquire are all coming from the Orlov Combine,” Catherine said. “There’s no one else in this sector of space to buy such weapons from.”
“It is as we predicted,” Piro said. “Mr. Mesa suggested as much himself. I know where your brother is being held, Captain. I must ask you, though . . . are you aware what these trade goods are?”
“No,” Catherine admitted. “The information I was sent was vague. Prewar materials, was how he described it. The containers are to be delivered to the buyer, sealed.”
“You need to watch this,” Piro said.
A video recording of Cecil’s assistant appeared on several of his screens at once. “My name is Zachary Dionysus Mesa,” he began.
Catherine’s eyes went wide as she listened to his message.
* * *
Zak Mesa nervously stuck his hands in his pockets as the elevator slowly climbed the skeletal docking tower. The huge cargo elevator had to be a hundred years old, and given that it was exposed to the elements, Zak was amazed it was still working. A cold, dry wind whipped fine dust through the safety cage as it slowly ascended, forcing the historian to tighten his goggles.
Zak and Anna looked up at the ship as the elevator slowly ascended the tower. It was big, probably seventy meters tall. Its fat, armored, gunmetal hull dully reflected the light of Danzig-5012 as the platform slowly lifted them above the city. It had a cluster of four engines at its tail, and four airfoils in between them. Each engine cowling had a radiator sticking out of it. As the elevator brought them level with the cargo bay doors, Zak caught a glimpse of nose art painted on the side of its hull; he recognized it as Princess Andromeda from Ancient Greek mythology.
“This is it,” Zak said, as the elevator ground to a halt. The cage doors opened, allowing Zak and Anna to make their way across the bridge of the landing tower to the ship’s open cargo bay doors. Like the rest of the structure, the bridge was skeletal, exposed to the elements, and harsh winds buffeted the pair as they approached. At the end of the bridge, Zak could see into the cargo bay. It was well-lit, clean, and a group of people were waiting for him.
The first person to approach was a short, stout man in a sage green coverall. “Greetings, gentlefolk,” he said, crushing Zak’s hand as he shook it. “I am Cargomaster Kimball. Welcome aboard the Privateer Ship Andromeda.”
“Thank you,” Zak replied nervously.
A tall woman in a leather flight jacket stepped forward. She had gold wings on her left breast, and four gold bars on each shoulder. “I am Catherine Blackwood. This is my ship.”
“I recognized you from the message you sent your brother,” Zak said. “I was there when he received it. I . . . I almost didn’t want to believe it.”
A tall, broad-shouldered man with dark skin and a cybernetic ocular implant scanned the two newcomers with a handheld device. “We’re secure, Captain. No transmitters detected.”
The captain nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Broadbent. Now,” she turned her attention to the two young researchers, “did you bring the landing coordinates from Lang?”
Zak retrieved his handheld from his pocket. “I did. Captain, I . . . thank you. I don’t know what else to say. Your brother is a good man. He secured our release, just like he said he would.”
The spacer seemed pleased with Zak’s praise of her brother. “Yes, well, we’re not done yet,” she said. She looked over Zak’s shoulder. “Ah, there you are.”
Zak
turned and found his contact with the Orlov refugees standing behind him. “Strelok!” he said. “What are you doing here?”
He had removed his goggles and hood, but left his respirator on. “Zanzibar is a small world after all,” he said. “The captain and her companions sought us out, just as you did. It seems that our Sanctuary isn’t a secret any longer.”
“But how . . . ?”
“There’ll be time to catch up later, Mr. Mesa,” the captain said. She put her hand on the shoulder of a young girl, a teenager, who was wearing the green jumpsuit that her crew all wore. “Crewman Winchester here will take you and . . . Miss Kay, was it? Yes. She will take you up to the personnel deck and get you assigned berths. You will remain with us from now on, no matter what happens.”
“What is happening, Captain?” Zak asked. “Lang gave me coordinates for a meeting point. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m assuming he’s using you to go buy his weapons for him. But why is Strelok here? Did he tell you what it is Lang has in his possession?”
“He did,” the captain said. “And if Lang thinks I’m going to fly halfway back to Combine space, meet up with some unscrupulous arms dealer, and secure weapons for his army he’s delusional. Trust me, Mr. Mesa, that son of a whore picked the wrong woman to try and strongarm.”
“There’s more than just Zanzibari artifacts,” Zak said. On his handheld, he pulled up a picture of one of the mysterious aliens that had ruled over the Zanzibari natives eons before. “We found artifacts from an unknown Antecessor species.”
Captain Blackwood turned and faced Zak again. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
* * *
Marcus Winchester and his Cowboys stood around the holotank on the Andromeda’s Astrogation deck. Instead of 3D star charts, they had displayed before them a representation of the surface of Zanzibar.
“. . . so that’s the long and short of it so far,” Marcus said, having briefed the team on everything that had transpired. “The captain made it pretty clear she isn’t going to go fetch weapons for Lang. Tomorrow morning, the ship is going to lift off from Freeport and land here,” he said, pointing to the holographic map, “in order to take on the first batch of artifacts Lang intends to sell. He managed to set up a deal with a buyer, we don’t know who, but that guy either can’t or won’t come to Zanzibar. So supposedly the captain is going to take the Andromeda through three systems, weeks of travel time, to meet with the buyer and secure the weapons. Then it’s weeks of travel time back, hand over the weapons to Lang, and supposedly Cecil gets to come home.”