by Chris Reher
“What happened here?” he said to a Centauri woman wearing something made to look like snake skin and worn just as tightly. She seemed fascinated by the number of bodies lined up on the platform. As they watched, another stretcher emerged from the access tube to the Othani.
“Rebels, the lot of them.”
“Arawaj rebels?” Seth scanned the crowd and the bodies on the ground. Although they had been weighed down a little, no one had bothered to cover the Caspians, Centauri, and two Humans. All combat-sized and dressed for work. A few official-looking individuals seemed occupied with removing the bodies but it didn’t look like anyone was investigating a crime here. As always in places like these, if this didn’t involve civilians, no one cared or dared enough to meddle in rebel affairs.
She shrugged her overly perfumed shoulders. “I didn’t ask. I don’t hold much with rebels. It’s always good to mind one’s own business.” She cast a professional glance over Seth to gauge the depth of his pockets and his willingness to part with their content. “It was done very quickly. Just some shouting, really, and then a whole gang of no-goods took off in a couple of skimmers. By the time we got out here, it was all over.”
“None of them locals?”
“None I recognized.” She shifted herself into an inviting pose now that she had his attention. “Not that I know all the locals that hang around here, of course. Just passing through myself.”
“Of course,” he said diplomatically and moved away before she got around to her offer. One of the Humans near the entrance drew back when Seth approached him. Seth did not have to draw deeply upon his lifelong study of xenos to recognize when a Human was nervous. “You the captain?” he said in lieu of a greeting, keeping his voice low.
“What? No.” The man’s eyes were fixed upon the dead rebels on the ground. “He’s inside. They got him, too.”
“Shri-Lan did?”
“Arawaj!” the Human cried. “Damn Arawaj!”
“Your own?” Seth said and turned his wrist out as he slipped the data sheet from the armlet he had been given.
The rebel looked down at it with a puzzled frown. Then his brows lifted. “You’re Ton Kedi’s contact,” he exclaimed and then immediately lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper. “Kada, is it? You’re too late, Kada.”
“I can see that.”
The rebel pulled a frayed, too-small jacket tighter around his ample frame. “Velen Phar is inside. He can explain this mess. I’m done with this. I guess we’re all done with this now.”
Seth stepped around him and slipped through the ship’s umbilical. The Othani was no more attractive inside than out. Too many jumps through sub-space, too many times loaded and unloaded, no coin spent on the comforts he took for granted even on his own small cruiser. The deck plates clanged against each other as he walked the otherwise silent corridor, peering into cabins as he went. A medic of some sort emerged from a door up ahead and he followed the sound of voices into what appeared to be the ship’s galley, made for a crew of about a dozen, unadorned and without luxury.
A Centauri sat shirtless on one of the benches, scowling at another medic who was patching up his badly burned chest and shoulder. He looked up when Seth entered. “Who, by Cazun’s arse, are you, now?” he growled.
“Your disgruntled customer,” Seth replied. He stepped around a smear of blood on the floor and dropped Ton Kedi’s data sheet onto the table.
Velen Phar waved the medic away. She shrugged and packed up her tools. He caught her arm and waited until she handed him another packet of painkillers before leaving the room. “Nothing left here for you, Kada.”
“My cargo?”
“Gone. Damn Sebasta got here first.”
“Ivor Sebasta?” Seth knew Sebasta by reputation, which wasn’t a good one. He was the sort of Arawaj rebel who gave the entire faction their reputation for resorting to reprehensible methods when outgunned, which was often.
“Yeah, I heard he was coming for us and meant to head into the Mrak sector. But he set his dogs on us to make sure I didn’t give him the slip.” Velen Phar winced as he shrugged a shirt over his bandaged shoulder. “Then it all goes to piss when Vichal decides he wants payment for delivering us here. Got the end of a pistol instead. I lost two of my crew, too.”
“We had a deal,” Seth reminded him. “It took me ten days to get all the way out here. Targon time.”
The captain snarled at him. “Do I look happy about this? I’m stuck here now with this mess to clean up. I’m being charged for the body dump.”
Seth went to the galley counter and helped himself to a cup of tea. At least the supplies here included a decent selection of flavors that appealed to Centauri and not the fruity stuff preferred by other species. “Any idea where your spanners are now?”
“Forget it, Kada. Nasty bunch. Takes more than the likes of you to get the better of Ivor Sebasta.”
Seth shrugged. “Just want to talk to him.”
“You won’t get near the spanners. They’ve got them locked up by now.”
“Locked up? Why?”
“Those spanners aren’t coddled little princesses like the Union navigators. We made sure they can look after themselves if need be. Should have seen Ciela put up a fight.” The captain stared off into the middle distance for a moment. “They were so scared. This wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” He leaned forward with a pained grunt to pick up a discarded wrap, the sort of pretty thing a woman might like. Seth watched in silent amazement as he held it to his nose. “None of them know anything but Arawaj. They don’t know anything but what they’ve been told.” He folded the scarf carefully and placed it on the table. The floor here was littered with scattered dishes and evidence of medical intervention but that didn’t seem to bother him as much as the small wrinkle on the cloth.
“Where are they being taken?”
Phar lifted his bloodshot eyes to watch Seth sit on one of the tables, his feet on a bench. “To be sold, Kada. Sold like slaves to the damnable Shri-Lan.”
Seth’s cup paused halfway to his lips. “What?”
The captain nodded. “We’re coming apart. I can feel it. There are many among the Arawaj who want to align with the Shri-Lan, Sebasta most of all. Fucking traitors. And the price of that is a handful of spanners who know nothing more than working on an old smuggler’s barge.”
“Such an alliance was once nearly achieved,” Seth reminded him.
“And we’ve worked hard to make certain it never comes to pass. We won’t bow to the Shri-Lan. Nothing but wealth and power matters to them. They’re no better than the Commonwealth spreading like a tumor through this region.”
“So you tried to get your spanners out of the way.”
“Aye, and failed. When those traitors heard I was leaving Tadonna before the Union soldiers close the noose around our necks out there, they tracked me here.” He laughed without humor at the blood on the floor. “And look how I got paid for my effort.”
“Where is this trade happening?”
“Do you think they’d tell me that?” Phar roared and slammed his fist onto the table. His other hand immediately went to his injured shoulder and he lowered his head, reminded of his defeat. “They’re gone, Kada. And it’s my fault for choosing this dump to hand them over to you. I don’t know how they’ll cope. They loathe Shri-Lan as much as they hate the Commonwealth. We saw to that.”
Seth nodded, aware of his complete lack of sympathy for the captain’s regrets. These spanners he just lost to the Shri-Lan would have been brainwashed by Arawaj doctrine until there was nothing but distrust of all that the Commonwealth brought to the sector. It would take Union experts a long time to bring them around, using decompression and therapy methods that often succeed and sometimes failed. Rebel or not, a spanner capable of cracking a keyhole was worth any expense to ensure they did so for the Union. But now the prospect of adding four more spanners to Air Command’s fleet suddenly seemed like a very remote possibility.
“D
o you have any names? The ship they’re using? Anything?”
Velen Phar heaved himself to his feet and went to the door. “Erron!”
It took a few minutes before the Human rebel who had spoken to Seth earlier came into the room. He stared at the blood on the floor, looking like he had seen more than his share of the stuff today. “Air Command just came through the jumpsite,” he reported. “Battlecruiser, even. We better get on our way.”
Phar jerked his thumb at the man. “Zev Erron. He talked to Vichal’s posse some before things got ugly.”
“I’m looking for the spanners,” Seth told him.
“They’re gone.”
Seth glanced at the captain. “Where do you find these geniuses?” He nodded toward a video screen on the wall. “Can I see them?”
Phar nodded to Erron who worked with the display to bring up video profiles of the four spanners. The information listed for them was thin. Names, physical description, nothing more. And images. Seth cocked his head and squinted at the greasy screen. “GenMods?”
“Some minor alterations,” the captain admitted.
Seth stood up and walked closer to the display. A pale, white-haired woman with a woeful expression. An unsmiling male without hair on his head or brow, wearing a long caftan over baggy trousers. A dark-haired youth with a devilish smile that begged to be echoed. And, finally, another woman with a thick mop of hair as black as a Centauri’s. Only one eye was visible behind the hair falling into her face but it was also black, lacking the deep violet common among Centauri. All of them seemed related; tall, long-limbed like Centauri or their Delphian cousins, with sharply defined features. There was something unsettling about them. Seth spent many of the solitary hours aboard the Dutchman immersed in the study of Trans-Targon and the creatures that inhabited it, but he had never seen sentients like these. He wasn’t even sure exactly what seemed so odd about them. “Didn’t think Arawaj meddled with genetics.”
Phar shrugged. “They’re damn prodigies. Uncanny spatial memories. That one there, Ciela, can tap an exit like she’s got one foot in subspace already. Damn brilliant.”
“And working for a gunrunner,” Seth scoffed. The woman gazed back at him from the screen with an expression suggesting that something amused her even though not a hint of a smile showed on her face. She wore boots, faded black trousers and a snug shirt along with a holster. The capable-looking image of a warrior was ruined by thin green streaks in her hair and a mass of pink beads wrapped around her neck.
“They’re working for the cause,” the captain corrected. “In whatever way they can.” He turned to Zev Erron. “Did you get anything from Vichal’s group? Any talk between them?”
Erron scowled at Seth, possibly for having been called a gunrunner. Or a genius. “Vichal was going to meet up with Sebasta’s group coming in on a Titan class freighter. Retrofitted. Legit transport. Grains. Pretty safe from searches ‘cause you can scan for that without boarding. Slow, though.”
“Half of the scows here at Titans,” Seth said.
“That’s all he said. No one mentioned where they were going but it won’t be the jumpsite, that’s for sure. They wouldn’t risk getting hassled outside Tayako air space by that Union ship.”
Seth nodded, mostly to himself. Even if Air Command left them unmolested, the jumpsite led to Zera, a sector heavily patrolled these days. Sebasta was sure to head for the keyhole instead. Seth’s onboard navigator had reported just two known exits from there, one leading to the Mrak system, the other to Feron.
“Feron,” Seth said thoughtfully. “Must be heading to Feron. Nothing happening in the Mrak sector these days.”
“Seems likely,” Phar said. “But there’s only one more keyhole in that sub-sector. At least only one they know of.”
Seth looked up. “What do you mean? Are there more?”
The captain shrugged. “I’m a smuggler. We know where to hide.”
“Mind sharing the co-ords?”
“You’re a spanner now?”
“I just like to collect information.”
“Forget it. I doubt your ship would even recognize that second one if you flew into it.” His eyes narrowed. “And that’s final. I think I’ve bled enough for one day.”
* * *
“Dutchman to Tower,” Seth said after opening a local com channel once back aboard his ship. A report on his screens showed that an Air Command transport had indeed spanned the jumpsite and headed this way. No doubt someone had sent a message about Arawaj brawling amongst their own. Few rules governed the faction but they weren’t given to murdering each other on a public and largely neutral port. It would be enough to pique Air Command’s curiosity. If nothing else, a visit by an Air Command patrol would ensure the more law abiding folks that Tayako Station wasn’t about to become another rebel lair.
“Tower,” came the lazy reply. Seth recognized a fellow Centauri by the drawl.
“Tower, I’m looking to hitch a ride out of here. Got anyone ready to depart that can pog onto? Save me some coolant.”
“You and everybody else. Every time Air Command breezes in we lose business. Where to?”
“Not Zera,” Seth said evasively, meaning their only jumpsite, the one decent folks used. The one that just spewed a military ship into the sector. All of the interesting ships would be heading toward the keyhole. At least those who had a spanner capable of using it.
“And you think anyone not going there is going to tell us where they’re going?”
“Yeah.”
There was a pause. “If they did, it might be Tambda Vi, possibly 399-CE. Just guessing.”
“Just those two?”
“They might take on a guest or two. For a fee. On the other hand I guarantee both Nge-2 and the Hajsa would just take your plane and space you as soon as they clear Tayako. Don’t let the grain bins fool you.”
Seth made a note of those names. Nge-2 sounded like a Noth ship unlikely to carry oxygen but the Hajsa seemed familiar. “Thanks. I’ll try to avoid them.”
“Seems wise. The Hajsa’s not leaving until 39-7 anyway. Being scrubbed for bugs.”
“The live sort?” Seth asked, thinking it might be time for his own ship to be inspected for listening and tracking devices. Fortunately, many ports of call offered the service if you knew whom to ask.
“Yeah. Hajsa picked up something nasty on Phi Seven. We had to delouse the entire crew before letting them into the station. This is why I like you all just fine on the other side of the decon screen.”
“Can’t blame you,” Seth said amicably and signed off. He tapped through his archive until he found the ship’s name, indeed a Titan class, and several anecdotes linking her to Arawaj owners. There was nothing about the other transports.
He placed his hand onto a sensor on the com console. Taking his time, he encoded a message packet to Targon, the seat of the Union’s military in the sector. Specifically, the packet tracked to Colonel Tal Carras, now deeply entrenched in covert operations despite his official retirement.
“Code One, Staff B message direct, closed band.” Seth waited for the coding process to begin and composed a message without video, addressing no one. “I’ve located the spanners where expected, but it seems that other eyes were on them, too. Ivor Sebasta took ownership and is heading for a date with the Shri-Lan, possibly aboard Titan Hajsa. The spanners seem to be payment for something. I’m assuming he’ll jump to either Feron or Mrak very shortly so you might want to catch the show there. He’s still in port - I’ll send another message if I find them. If not, I’ll head to Feron. Send directives, advice and those little biscuits your mom makes. Love, Margaret.”
He dispatched the missive to the jumpsite’s Union relays and from there onwards to its destination. His work as black ops proxy for one of the Commonwealth governors had suited him well until that disaster over Shaddallam a year ago. Since then, Colonel Carras had been his single point of contact with Air Command, taking advantage of Seth’s training and deep cover
among rebel entities. Over time, he had come to trust the colonel’s instincts for this kind of work and, in turn, the colonel allowed him free reign to determine his methods. Also, he suspected, their collaboration gave the good colonel a way to keep an eye on someone who was once trained to Air Command’s highest standards before deciding to go his own way.
His message to Carras would ensure that an Air Command battlecruiser stood ready at the keyhole terminus in each sector by the time Sebasta arrived. Then it was just a matter of ducking out of the way when the shooting started. Seth loved his life and the freedom it gave him to choose his work, but being frequently mistaken for a rebel came with the job.
Seth once again left his ship, this time heading down the gravity-defying lift from the docking platforms to the surface of the moon. He emerged inside one of the domed facilities housing the permanent services offered to travelers. For the most part, that included ways and means to get off this rock and get elsewhere. He looked around the gray, echoing hall, hoping it was more air tight than the hangar it resembled.
Apparently, ships and their passengers were shuttled in and out of here with efficiency; only a few bands of travelers made use of this place. Some sort of near-violent argument was going on around a billet station involving what looked like the entire extended clan of a Nebdanese rhong and Seth made a wide detour around that one. They were known to spit when angered. A couple of passengers had elected to sleep in the hall; perhaps the accommodations here were too expensive. He didn’t want to know why there was a naked Aramese walking about. It was common to see Caspians unclothed, maybe the folks in charge of this place extended the same courtesy to all furred species.
A few careful questions and some coin in the correct hand led him to an access lift to the loading platform where the Hajsa moored. Unlike the activity on the other dock, here everything seemed in motion. Bins of standard sizes and shapes moved along magnetized rails at dizzying speeds, apparently unconcerned about pedestrians getting in the way. Cargo bays yawned open to admit the containers as Tayako’s trade goods were transferred from merchant shuttles arriving from the surface to the freighters heading into other parts of Trans-Targon. Scanners at the entrances looked for destination information, contaminants and contraband. Some dock hands moved among all that, supervising whatever here might need supervision.