Mandrake Company- The Complete Series

by Ruby Lionsdrake

  “There’s a firing range on the ship?”

  “It gets set up in the cargo bay.”

  “There’s already a gym in the cargo bay. It’s quite the multipurpose room.”

  “Yes. Oddly, there’s rarely cargo in the cargo bay.” Thatcher smiled at her in a way that made her wonder if he’d been trying to make a joke.

  She smiled back, on the off chance it would please him.

  “As to my own fighting experience,” Thatcher said, “my mother enrolled me in boxing, wrestling, and martial arts when I was five, and I kept up the martial arts even after I left for the academy when I was fifteen.”

  Val didn’t point out that the usual minimum age for the academy was twenty, which had to include a four-year university degree or some form of apprenticeship that was its equivalent. Most people were closer to twenty-two when they entered, though brainy types who had no interest in business often headed for the army at an early age, since it was another potential path into the elite social classes.

  “So she already knew by the time you were five that you’d be getting beaten up a lot if you couldn’t defend yourself?” Val grinned, imagining his mother trying to figure out a way to keep her precocious child from being picked on by bullies.

  “She said it was so I would get exercise. I had a tendency toward indoor hobbies.”

  Her grin widened. “And you believed her?”

  “For… most of my youth.”

  They reached the bank of lifts, and a light blinked to let them know one was on its way. A couple of janitors ambled up, leading sweeping and floor-polishing robots. When the doors opened, everyone headed for the lift. It would have been big enough for all, but Val did a subtle body-block to keep the janitors from entering with them—she and Thatcher didn’t need any witnesses if they were going to roam around on floors where kidnapped admirals might be lurking. One grunted a protest, but she gave him her most winning look-at-my-charms smile, and he sighed and waved for another lift.

  “Are your parents still alive?” Val asked after the doors closed.

  “Hm?” Thatcher had his map out again and was studying it thoughtfully.

  “Your mother and father?” She supposed she should focus on the mission, too, but he hadn’t asked for further input from her.

  “Yes, they’re alive. They still live on Paradise. I haven’t visited often since leaving the fleet. They do not approve of my new career choice.”

  Val tried to decide if there was any pain in his voice. She could imagine that it would have been difficult for parents to go from having a star military officer who’d been one of the youngest instructors ever at the academy to having a mercenary for a son. Thatcher had sounded matter-of-fact though. Maybe he had come to terms with any familial disappointment that existed. Val couldn’t imagine not visiting her parents often… if they were still alive. Years had passed since Grenavine fell, but she still felt the loss. It was part of why she was trying so hard to help her brother, even if he hadn’t asked her to, even if he had never tried as hard as she to keep the bond between them alive.

  “You are prepared?” Thatcher’s hand was pressed against the sensor that kept the doors shut and didn’t let anyone call the lift back.

  Val blushed, hoping he hadn’t asked twice as she stood there, lost in thought. “I’m ready.”

  The doors slid open, and Thatcher led the way into a tunnel with rounded walls. Unlike the open concourse above, the gray, windowless passage had a stark, utilitarian feel. No vendors hawking cinnamon cakes down here. Not that there would have been anyone to sell them to. Judging by the emptiness in both directions, Sub-basement Six didn’t get a lot of visitors.

  Old parallel scars marked the floors where mine tracks must have once run. Those scars made her imagine an installation where every aurum was hoarded, human workers were chained to the walls, and no technology greater than carts on wheels existed. It was the sort of place her brother would end up in if she couldn’t help him in time.

  A large sign on the wall pointed toward the right and read “Cryo Storage” in several languages. The air was already chilled—apparently nobody bothered heating the sub-basements—but large freezer doors in that direction promised it could get a lot colder. The passage to the left wasn’t labeled, but an “Employees Only” sign marked the wall a few meters down.

  “Interesting.” Thatcher pointed to yet another sign, this a temporary one placed in the center of the hallway on the cryo side.

  “Closed for maintenance,” it read in GalCon Standard. Most of the system spoke it, but for those who didn’t, the sign also held a picture of someone touching a force field and getting a shock. A light flickered in the distance, threatening to go out. Another was already out. The evidence of delayed maintenance made Val skeptical that there was truly something as sophisticated as a force field blocking access, but Thatcher had turned in the other direction, so she didn’t trot up to check.

  “The generator room is this way,” he said.

  Val followed him, but she looked back over her shoulder. It had been the maintenance notification—one that might have been falsely placed to keep people from roaming past kidnapped admirals—that had brought them down to this floor. She almost pointed that out and suggested that they search in that direction first, but if Thatcher’s map didn’t have any likely prison cells in that direction, she supposed it made sense to check the generator room first. Besides, if the only thing in the other direction was freezers, then their legendary admiral would already have icicles around his heart.

  Doors started appearing on the sides of the tunnel, each one set into an alcove in the rounded cement walls. They were smaller and less insulated than the ones in the other direction.

  Thatcher stopped at the first one. A little plaque read, “Janitorial.” He opened it and stepped inside. Though surprised by the choice, Val joined him. Mops, brooms, scrubbers, and two powered-down robots waited inside the compact space.

  “I don’t see any generators,” Val whispered. Maybe Thatcher had decided to check all of the small rooms on the floor? A closet wasn’t a very spacious spot to store and guard a hostage—and it might be visited a couple of times a day by workers—but who knew? “Or did you bring me in here for a quickie, sir?”

  Thatcher hadn’t been looking at her—he was fishing in one of his pockets—but his surprised gaze lurched to her face now. “What?”

  “A, ah, quick round of sex. It was a joke. Because, uhm, that’s what people, couples, do in closets. Sometimes.” And so she uttered more lines that were totally inappropriate in a commander-cadet military situation. Val shook her head at herself; she was going to have to do some fancy flying later to impress him.

  Despite her explanation—and attempt to dismiss the joke—he was looking around, his brow still faintly crinkled. “It appears uncomfortable. I’ve… always preferred beds.”

  Well, at least he wasn’t a virgin. At this point, that wouldn’t have shocked her. But no, he probably had women fling themselves at him every time he beat up thugs in bars.

  Thatcher pulled out a small black sphere with a couple of sensors in its side. “I intend to launch a spy camera.”

  At his touch, an interface appeared in the air above the contraption. He adjusted the settings, and it floated out of his hand, leaving a small remote on his palm. He opened the door, letting the camera flow into the tunnel. It drifted up to the ceiling, hugging the shadows farthest from the light fixtures. It floated deeper into the complex, and he closed the door. He thumbed the remote, and an image of the tunnel came to life in front of him.

  The spy camera had already reached an intersection. Val shifted closer to Thatcher so she could see the display better.

  He looked down at her, his face inscrutable. Irritated by her closeness? She was on the verge of stepping back when he said, “I do not like quickies.”

  It was her turn to blurt, “What?”

  “Sexual encounters should be of sufficient length to ensure both pa
rties are satisfied.”

  “I… have always thought so too.”

  Thatcher returned his attention to the camera, nudging controls to send it to the left at the intersection and down another passage. A pair of men in coveralls was walking up that tunnel, and Val jumped, thinking they would spot the camera. But the sphere must have glided over their heads without attracting notice, because they never looked up.

  “The camera was a good idea,” Val whispered. Those two workers might be nothing more than they appeared, but if they had seen Val and Thatcher sneaking down the hall, they might have reported them.

  “Yes.”

  Val was about to snort—and remember why she’d always had an impression of him being arrogant—but he spoke again after a pause.

  “Thank you.”

  It sounded like he knew it was the expected response rather than what he sincerely thought, but she found herself smiling, anyway. He was trying. She wasn’t sure why—he certainly never had when she’d been a cadet—but it warmed her heart.

  The spy camera stopped in front of green metal double doors. A plaque read, “Backup Generator Room.”

  “I don’t suppose your camera knows how to open doors?” Val asked.

  “It can open some less sophisticated ones, but people tend to notice when doors appear to open and close of their own accord. The sphere is designed to blend into shadows, but it’s not invisible.” Thatcher nudged something on the remote, and their view of the door grew closer until the textured pits and pimples in the metal were visible.

  Val was about to question the point of this new view, but Thatcher held a finger to his lips and touched a volume control.

  “…keep him drugged,” a muffled voice said.

  “…don’t need him giving us trouble.”

  “He’s an old man.”

  “…master strategist and veteran soldier, you…”

  Val sucked in a breath, surprised they had found their kidnapped man on the first try. She was on the verge of congratulating her charms, but remembered that her idea had been to head off into the cryo storage area. Thatcher’s list deserved at least half of the credit.

  She was about to compliment him again when a thunk sounded. Their visual spun in dizzying circles, then blacked out for a moment. Val opened her mouth to ask what had happened when the feed blinked back on. A scowling man leaning out the door came into focus. He was staring straight at the camera.

  “Uh oh,” she murmured.

  Thatcher paused, then set his jaw and manipulated the camera. He steered it straight toward the man, who was pulling a laser pistol from his belt, then zipped it past him and into the room. The display blurred as it whipped around, taking in everything: big cylindrical generators with ducts and pipes coming out of them—they took up much of the room—and several armed men playing holo dice around a table up front. She had time to glimpse a figure curled on its side on the floor in the back—their missing admiral?—before the camera blinked out again, this time permanently.

  “The unit has been destroyed,” Thatcher reported. He pulled up his map again, zoomed in to their level, and stared at it, as if he were trying to memorize something.

  “Are we going to charge in and try to take those men on?” Considering that every single one of those men had been wearing at least one pistol on his belt, Val didn’t care for that option. “Or run?”

  Thatcher snapped his tablet shut, and the map disappeared. “Leave for now. They’ll search the area.”

  He peered into the tunnel, then jogged out, heading back toward the lifts.

  “What if they move him, because they know they’ve been discovered?” Val asked.

  “A valid possibility. We’ll only go up one floor and—”

  One of the lift doors opened as they approached. Val’s first thought was to run right inside and go wherever the occupants were going, but four men carrying laser rifles burst out. They spun toward Thatcher and Val right away.

  Thatcher crouched, as if he intended to spring, to try and surprise them and take them down, but he glanced at Val and paused. After a short moment, he straightened and lifted his hands in the air.

  Val slumped and did the same, realizing he had chosen not to fight because of her. Because he had worried she would be hurt? Or he believed she would hinder him or otherwise prove a burden? It didn’t matter. The rifles were trained on them now, and it was too late to do anything about it.

  “What now?” Val muttered to Thatcher, then heard footsteps approaching from behind. She raised her voice. “If you four are base security, there are some thugs who kidnapped someone important back there.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the intersection. Clad in a mishmash of civilian clothing, these men didn’t look much like station security. Even if they had been, she wouldn’t have been certain station security would help them, given that suspicious golden alert. Still, one could always hope.

  “Imagine that,” one of the men said.

  “I don’t suppose your charms would work on these individuals?” Thatcher murmured.

  In other circumstances, Val might have laughed. She could only shake her head now. Two men were walking up on them from behind, and she recognized one from the camera.

  “What do we have here?” he asked. “Spies? Rescuers?” After a pause, he added, “Victims?”

  “Do we get to vote on which we’d prefer to be?” Val asked.

  The man snorted. “Freeze them.”

  5

  The guards were thorough in searching Gregor’s pockets and, while wearing cheerful leers, frisked Cadet Calendula even more thoroughly. Gregor was tempted to attack them, if only to halt their invasive probe, but the two men standing in the doorway and pointing weapons at their prisoners appeared proficient. In addition to removing all of their gear, the guards smirked and took Gregor and Calendula’s jackets before walking out of the freezer. The frigid air that wrapped around them wasn’t cold enough to sear his nostrils or freeze spit before it hit the floor—he had fought on a planet that could claim such temperatures once—but it would kill them in time, regardless. Although, if the compact unit was as airtight as it appeared, they would likely poison themselves with their carbon dioxide emissions long before hypothermia set in.

  As soon as the door shut, which was accompanied by the resounding clank of an old-fashioned lock being thrown, Gregor surveyed the crates on the shelves, looking for something that might prove useful for escaping. Calendula stuck her hands under her armpits, walked to the door, and kicked it a few times with the toe of her boot.

  “What are the chances that someone will wander by and let us out?” she asked.

  “I would need to know how many freezer units are on this level and how many of the owners or representatives for the owners are on the base currently to begin to make an estimate.” Gregor turned a big box to read the contents: Bill’s Ice Cream Parlor, chocolate, 50 gallons. Well, that wasn’t going to help much with an escape. “It would also be useful to know the duration of their stay, so as to estimate when they might need to come down and pick up their cargo.”

  “It was a rhetorical question,” Calendula said.

  “Oh.”

  Gregor checked a few more shelves, but most of the boxes held ingredients for making ice cream or ice cream itself. Perhaps a melted form of the dessert could be used as a mild lubricant—he imagined guards running down a hall and slipping on liquid chocolate-and-peanut-butter—but that was far-fetched. A couple of the larger boxes had straps around them, likely from where lifting equipment had been used to move them. But unless Gregor wanted to hang himself, he couldn’t see how those could be useful. He spotted a couple of metallic cylinders in a back corner and knelt for a closer look at them. Liquid nitrogen. For fast-freezing ice cream?

  “Bill’s Ice Cream Parlor?” Calendula asked, now examining the boxes herself. “Maybe a server will be sent down for supplies at some point today.”

  “Maybe.” Gregor left the shelves and examined the door. M
ade from metal, it lacked a window or handle on this side. He touched a plate fastened to the door at waist level. Might it provide access to the lock hardware? That clank had suggested a physical mechanism rather than an electronic system. Too bad the guards had removed his lock-picking kit. He picked at one corner of the plate, the icy surface numbing his bare fingers.

  “How long do you think we have before we… freeze?” Calendula asked.

  “Is that a rhetorical question?” It would take more than his fingernail to remove the plate, so Gregor patted his pockets, hoping the guards had left him something that might be useful.

  “No…”

  Her voice lacked its usual irreverence. Gregor paused to look at her. Was that concern on her face? Given their circumstances, it seemed likely.

  “I don’t know the exact temperature—” the gauges were on the outside of the units, and the guard had shoved him in too quickly for him to read theirs, “—but numerous hours or even days could pass before we would be in danger of freezing, especially if we keep active.” He was debating whether to mention the carbon dioxide issue, which would become a problem much sooner, when she grimaced and spoke again.

  “And how long before we run out of air?”

  “It’s the exhalation of carbon dioxide rather than the consumption of oxygen that’s the problem. Given the size of this freezer and the fact that there are two of us in here breathing, I estimate that will only take a couple of hours.”

  Her grimace deepened. “Maybe we should have brought one of your mango trees along.”

  “A mango forest would be required, and it wouldn’t fit in here.”

  “Yeah. That was a joke, Thatcher.” She gave him a wan smile. The expression, the concern in her eyes… it tugged at his soul. The emotions of other people rarely affected him, indeed their intensity usually made him uncomfortable, but it was different with her. Or maybe it was the situation. He wanted to hug her, to comfort her. Something.

  “You can call me Gregor,” he blurted, then immediately second-guessed himself. He was supposed to be her commanding officer, not her friend, not someone who invited first-name familiarity. How would that comfort her, anyway?