by Mel Keegan
“Comm traffic?” Shapiro looked through the mist hazing the tank, at Rusch, who was intent on a threedee.
“The yacht’s AI is hailing us, it’s been hailing us for the past two minutes,” she reported. “The tachyon transmitters are not just dark, Harrison. The scan reports them actually shut down. Bronhill and Sung couldn’t call out if they wanted to.”
“Weapons?” Travers asked of Vidal.
“The Starrigger’s unarmed.” He fed the scan data to a larger threedee. “I’m looking for anything suspicious, and the biggest weapon I’m seeing is a sidearm … actually, a pair of sidearms. The read like Kolya .60 caliber, and they’re in storage, aft, under the deck.”
So the only weapons Bronhill and Sung might have to hand were the kind of sneak weapons with which Marin was intimately familiar, the palm guns, dart guns, made of organic materials, firing slivers of needle-sharp bone tipped in assorted venoms. He leaned on the edge of Vidal’s workspace, going over the scan data again, looking for the vague signatures of such weapons. Shapiro was waiting for his professional opinion.
“What are you looking for, Curtis?” Chandra Liang wondered. “If not guns and comm traffic, what am I missing?”
Marin did not look away from the data. “Kamikaze tactics,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ve seen a craft like the yacht rigged as a device on a proximity detonator. Blow a Weimann drive engine inside a hangar, and this ship, any ship, is vapor.”
“They might have been expecting to meet the Mercury,” Vidal mused, “and the targets would be the President of Velcastra and the rogue Fleet officer who masterminded the Colonial Wars. Damn.” He gave Shapiro and Liang a hard look. “The yacht won’t be coming one meter closer than it is right now, Harrison. If you want to talk, have them eject in an escape pod. We’ll bring it into the decontamination bay, flush it right back into space as soon as they’re out, and hold it in tractors in case we’re releasing them.” He looked from Travers and Marin to Rusch and back. “If they’re trying to set something up, they’re going to sit out the war in custody. They can share accommodations with Senator Rutherford.”
The Mercury was holding three prisoners at this point. Two more would make little difference, and Shapiro nodded his assent. “Good enough. Robert?”
“Good enough,” Chandra Liang agreed. “Etienne, I’ll talk to them.”
A moment, and the AI said evenly, “Go ahead, President Liang.”
He was frowning into the navtank as he spoke. Long-range imaging had begun to display grainy visuals of the Starrigger, which drifted against the cold glitter of the stars as if it were dead. “Colonel Bronhill, this is Robert Chandra Liang. You know you’ve been scanned, and you won’t expect us to trust you. If you would like to talk with me, you and your Executive Officer should launch in an escape pod. You’ll be tractored into a shielded hanger, and will receive further instructions there.”
Over the comm, Bronhill was bass and hoarse with stress. Marin could hear the clear signs of anxiety in every syllable as he said, “We didn’t expect to be trusted, Mister President. There’s no reason you should trust us, and every reason for you to take the necessary security precautions. We came here to talk, and we’ll launch a pod at once.”
Still intent on the datastream from the Wastrel’s sensors, Marin was watching the two figures in thermal imaging. They moved back to the middle of the yacht, and a crackle of blue indicated power. “One of their two pods is coming online … diagnostics look fine. They’re in, and … launching.”
The pods were designed to be entered in seconds, and to blow out in seconds. Most had a few hours of life support and rudimentary thrusters. This one punched out of the belly of the Starrigger and jetted up and around in a wide arc, away from the yacht and toward the Wastrel.
“Etienne, catch it,” Vaurien said quietly. “Put it in Decon 4. Scan the hell out of it – and them.” He lifted a brow at the company which had gathered in the ops room. “You’ll want to be there, Harrison. Neil, Curtis, draw weapons. Security duty.”
“Five minutes,” Travers promised.
“Take your time.” Vaurien was on his way out, with Shapiro, Liang and Rusch right behind him, while Vidal waited with Marin and Travers. “Bronhill and Sung will be out of that pod and in a ’lock so fast, they’ll be dizzy, and then the pod will be off this ship again, just as fast.”
So there would be no automated surprises, as soon as backs were turned on it, Marin thought grimly as he, Travers and Vidal headed aft to the crew quarters. Vidal watched mutely as Travers pulled the case out of the bottom of their closet. The familiar sidearms were serviced and kept loaded. Marin chose the Chiyoda and, out of respect, offered Vidal a weapon.
His hand hovered over the case, and then he withdrew it and shook his head with genuine regret. “Not yet,” he said in a harsh tone. “I’d be no good in a situation. More likely to get in the way, get somebody hurt dragging me back out.” He gave Marin a faint smile. “But thanks.”
Marin appreciated the wisdom as well as the honesty, and gave Vidal a nod as Travers closed up the case. “You know Bronhill or Sung?”
“I know Val Sung,” Vidal mused. “I’ve played folgen with her and a few from the command core of the Chicago, when we were all drydocked at Albeniz for a routine systems upgrade.”
“What do you think of her?” Travers was sliding the Chiyoda machine pistol into its holster, in the curve of his back.
“She’s a lot like Alexis.” Vidal shoved both hands into the pockets of the dark linen slacks he wore. They fit him loosely, helping to disguise the rail thinness that had only just begun to flesh out. “She’s a scientist, far more interested in gravity events than politics or anybody’s culture. She’s four, maybe five years older than me – I asked her what in the hell she was doing in Fleet, and she said it was the fast-track to get into the big research projects. Turns out, back in the homeworlds it can take twenty years to get from freshman to doctorate, with a grant and a position on a science vessel with access to the Drift. People like Sung make a deal with the devil. Ten years in Fleet, a clean record, and strings get pulled. Even if she never developed an ambition to command the carrier – some people do, some don’t; I never had any interest in it – Sung could expect to command a ship like the Carellan Djerun in another year, with clearance to get into Hellgate.”
“Family?” Travers wondered as they headed for the service lifts.
But Vidal’s head was shaking. “A long string of short-term partners of both genders. One actual relationship. I remember her saying it lasted five years, might have lasted for life, if the woman hadn’t been killed in bad landing. After that, Sung seemed to bury herself in work, and get intimate occasionally for the fun of it.”
“You?” Travers prompted with a crooked grin.
Vidal rolled his eyes to the gods. “Once. And I was so drunk, I don’t remember a goddamned thing about it. But she didn’t throw the breakfast dishes at me, so I must’ve minded my manners and done the necessary.” He looked down, gave himself a scornful look. “She probably won’t even recognize me now.”
She would, Marin thought. Vidal had a distinctive face, and the thinness had taken his hawkish features and made them haunting. He had a very good nose, and the blue eyes were deeper set now, glittering, while his skin was so pale that the Delta Dragons tattoo seemed shockingly dark. But Marin said nothing of this, and stepped into the lift with him and Travers, for the short ride down and aft to the special hangars.
Decon 4 was dim, cold, aromatic. The armor around it was a half meter thick, and it had its own Arago screens on all six sides. The glass panes looking into it were no more than a meter wide, and almost as thick, giving a distorted view. The Starrigger’s pod was dwarfed by hulking machinery which swung into place. On the AI’s command, cryogen cannons would drop its ambient temperature to a little above the level of liquid nitrogen, and Bronhill and Sung would know they had been in extreme danger since the Wastrel dropped out of e-space.
; The hangar had repressurized but the air was still well below zero when the gull-gray teardrop shape of the pod opened. Two figures stepped out, hugging themselves against the striking cold, and hurried toward the airlocked compartment which had cracked for them. They were inside in moments, and Etienne resealed the ’lock, heated it. The space was little more than a tool store, with just enough width for them to turn around and face the flatscreen on which Chandra Liang and Shapiro were framed.
The scan process began again, and Marin said levelly, quietly, to the comm, “Colonel Bronhill, Major Sung, please undress and wait there. Bring nothing with you. Your effects will be returned to you when you leave.” If you leave. He did not voice the words, but the subtext was implicit.
They were shrugging out of the dress uniforms as Grant stepped out of the lift, flanked by a pair of meddrones. From the look on his face, he knew nothing and expected a medical emergency. His drones were laden with equipment cases, and the pockets of his gaudy shirt were stuffed with oddments.
“What’s the trouble?” He was already peering into the hangar, watching the pod as it was pushed back out into the vacuum, hustled away from the tug. “Who’s been hurt?”
“No one, yet,” Vaurien told him. “Two guests have just come aboard, Bill. They’re in the ’lock. Have them step into the workshop, and make sure there’s nothing on them, or in them, that could be classified as hazardous.”
He made a face, and the strine accent thickened like molasses. “You dragged me down here to shove a sensor probe up somebody’s butt?”
“Rather you than me,” Marin said tartly. “You’re the doctor. Security is still my trade, and I can do it – but I know I’d prefer a medic’s touch, if it were me in there, ass-naked and petrified.”
Grant’s brows arched. “Anybody I know?”
“Christ, I hope not,” Vidal muttered. “Look, Bill, just do it, will you? And try not to insult them. If they’re on the level, and God knows, they probably are, we don’t want to be making enemies.”
Still, Bronhill and Sung were professional enough to have been expecting this, Marin knew. They stepped into the adjacent workshop without a protest, spread arms and legs, permitting a scan that began at the toenails and ended at the scalp follicles. During the next few minutes the drones scanned their discarded clothing, chronos, ID tags, and Marin had to commend Grant, who was almost maliciously thorough.
Still, Bronhill and Sung made no protest, and at last Grant called off his drones and said to the comm, “They’re so clean, they squeak, boss. Where do you want them? I’ve got a couple of surgical gowns they can have.”
“Thanks, Bill.” Vaurien was leaning on the bulkhead right outside the Arago-screened door to the workshop. “They can come right up to the office. Harrison, why don’t you have Jon bring a couple of robes? I’ll make sure the ’chef is properly stocked.”
Marin and Travers took station to either side of the door as the Aragos shut down, and a pair of pale faces appeared. Bronhill and Sung were much less annoyed than apprehensive. They were not hurt, but they were cold and anxious, and both were looking for faces they might recognize. Marin saw the signs of relief as they saw Shapiro and Rusch, and sure enough, Valerie Sung knew Vidal on sight.
He chalked up a major mark to her when the first words out of her mouth – while she was still clutching a flimsy surgical gown around bare limbs which prickled with cold – were, “My God, Michael, what happened to you? I thought you were dead – you look like shit.”
“And feel like it,” he admitted. “Long story, Valerie. How are you?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice was pitched slightly high, and sharp. “I’m starting to wonder if I should be expecting a bullet in the back of the head.”
The question had the edge of a razor. Vidal shot a glance at Travers and Marin, and stepped closer to Sung. “Just between you and me, Val – straight question, straight answer. Are you doing something to get you shot?”
She sucked in a breath. “Depends who you talk to. What we’re doing will get us a firing squad, anywhere in the homeworlds.”
“Which means,” Travers observed, “you’ll probably be honored among the heroes of the Deep Sky.” He offered his hand. “Neil Travers, on General Shapiro’s private staff.”
“Colonel Travers,” Vidal amended. “This is Colonel Curtis Marin … and I scored the promotion myself, after the mission that almost killed me.”
Sung shook Travers’s hand, and Marin’s before her eyes widened on Vidal. “Jesus, Michael, you look like a ghost. What happened to you?”
“Later,” Vidal promised. “Looks like your boss and mine have got half a dialog going. I also know there’s an office, a robe and a mug of coffee waiting. Shall we –?”
While they spoke, Shapiro, Liang, Rusch and Bronhill had gathered in the hot gale issuing from an a/c vent, and if the look on Shapiro’s face could be trusted, he was satisfied. A wide-body cargo lift stood open, and over the loop Jon Kim’s voice was murmuring, “The office is ready for you. The autochef is set, there’s a couple of the best robes I could find, the AI is running surveillance. Ops room reports nothing moving, no comm traffic to or from the yacht. It looks kosher, Harry.”
“Yes,” Shapiro agreed, “I think it does.” He extended an arm toward the lift. “After you, Colonel Bronhill.”
With an expression of relief which he did not attempt to disguise, Bronhill stepped into the open car. He was a tall man, a hand’s span over Liang’s height, and much taller than Shapiro and Marin. He had the same wiry physique and stature as Vaurien, the same tenacity as Shapiro and, Marin thought, a hint of the kind of spiritual quality that was integral to Chandra Liang. And Rusch liked him, which would have been enough to make Marin keep an open mind, since he had come to value Alexis Rusch’s opinion.
The office was one deck up and forty meters forward. The lights and heaters were on, the smells of coffee and cinnamon beckoned, and the AI surveillance was so discreet, one had to deliberately look for the vid pickups. Marin’s shrewd eyes them at once, and he saw that Kim had arranged the chairs to put Bronhill and Sung face-on to them.
The robes were dark blue, which looked fine on Sung but did nothing for Bronhill. His complexion seemed to purple as he shrugged into it and pulled the collar up high about his ears. Shapiro set a mug into his hands, and he wrapped his fingers around the heat.
“I apologize for the formality,” Vaurien said in even tones. “But see it from our perspective, Colonel –”
“Sheer self-defense, Captain. Don’t even think of apologizing,” Bronhill said dismissively as he pulled the chair up to the desk, where Chandra Liang had taken the big leather chair opposite. “Our absence from the carrier is being fudged by my staff. Officially, we’ve been reported ill, suffering from a touch of food poisoning, from the same contaminated autochef. My CMO made the diagnosis, entered it into records, and we’re sleeping it off, on two days’ downtime. My cybertechs are fudging even the AI records, so that Fleet will never know we left the ship. The Starrigger will be serviced, its computers adjusted. The hangar from which it launched was under the control of my own flightcrew … and we are all party to the deception. It’s taken more than twenty people to get Major Sung and myself to these coordinates, without any record of our leaving or our return.”
Liang was impressed. “Then, it’s safe to assume that most of your command corps is privy to your mission.” Bronhill answered with a stiff nod. Liang cleared his throat. “In your message, you said Fleet has predicted forty million deaths and ruination for the planet … as a sane command corps, you’re seeking alternatives to being entered into the annals of history as mass murderers. This is something I can understand and respect. You also mentioned a deal.”
“A deal,” Bronhill echoed, “which will cause fury, outrage, on Earth. We believe Velcastra can be saved.” His lips compressed. “We can’t prevent a battle taking place, but we can swing the tide of it.”
A current of static electricity
crackled through the air. Marin could almost feel it in the hairs on the nape of his neck as Chandra Liang said, “We’re interested, Colonel, but I’m compelled to inform you, before you go any further, Velcastra is ready for any battle.”
“You can’t stand against a super-carrier battle group,” Bronhill began.
“We believe we can,” Liang said carefully. “You can’t have forgotten the outcome at Ulrand. We won there.”
For a long moment Bronhill and Sung frowned at each other, before Bronhill said, “The Shanghai had orders to bring Ulrand back into the fold of the Confederation. The Chicago is under orders to quash the colonial insurrection and punish, set an example. It won’t be the same. The battle group will enter the system with the intention of destroying, and there’s a great deal more in the Velcastra system to be destroyed, than there ever was at Ulrand.”
“This is true,” Liang admitted. “I’m appalled at your orders, Colonel. For a long time I’ve been convinced the Terran Confederation is evil. I see this as the proof of it.”
“Evil,” Bronhill echoed. “The same word was used by most of my command corps. Only two of us are not in full agreement of the deal Major Sung and I have come here to offer, and those two have agreed to accept arrest. They’re quite willing to be held in custody until the whole rigmarole is over, and survivors are repatriated.” His brows arched at Liang and Shapiro. “The liberty of the Deep Sky is not a question. After the total destruction of Albeniz, no one believes you people will fail to win your freedom later, if not sooner, and the toll in life, property and viable worlds will be catastrophic, if the process is not short-circuited without delay.”
The name of Albeniz jolted through Marin like a punch. He and Travers shared a glance, and Travers’s brows arched, his lips pursed in a silent whistle. For the moment, Shapiro and Liang shared a long, mute conference but said nothing of Albeniz. It would serve no purpose to tell Bronhill the colonial republicans were uninvolved. The issues were muddy enough already.