by Rick Partlow
We were given a wide berth by the tourists and security alike as we disembarked from our liftcar, using handholds to pull ourselves along in the zero-gravity of the docking bay. If there were any more of the DSI Cadre waiting for us, we'd be pretty well fucked without Deke around to help, but we hadn't had the luxury of waiting for him. Hopefully, he could catch up with us---hopefully, there wasn't a separate trap laying for him somewhere along the way.
I left it to Kara to watch our backs, devoting my attention to finding the Ismael. The docking bay on Belial was similar to the one on the CSF station back home---which is to say, it was similar to most docking bays on most space stations---but much larger. The evacuated portion that was open to space was separated from the rest of the bay by a wall of thick transplas, and the ships' airlocks were accessible by retractable docking umbilicals.
The Ismael, I discovered, was a star courier similar to the one we'd stolen from the late Trina Wellesley, tucked innocuously between an interplanetary shuttle and a personal runabout that had obviously come from somewhere else in the Centauri Belt. I wondered, as we approached down the umbilical, just how we'd get into the airlock with Mat unconscious, but the outer hatch popped open seemingly of its own accord as we floated toward it. I assumed that Mat had either come back to himself enough to open it or had sent it a signal earlier, when he'd made neural contact with me.
I carried him aboard, the surroundings of the courier familiar from our time on the Hecate, easily found the coffin-like automed and let Mat float next to me while I opened the lid.
Wait. I heard Mat's weak transmission again. Use the commo board---coordinates are preset. The General has to know.
"I will," I promised him, maneuvering him into the unit. "You just take it easy, Mat. Everything'll be okay."
I shut the lid, hit the controls to activate the diagnostic AI, and breathed a sigh of relief. He'd be okay now. The machine could replace his blood and repair what wounds were too large for his medical nano. If his trachea had been too badly damaged, he might need some further treatment, but he would live.
"How is he?" Kara asked me, dogging the hatch shut.
"He'll make it." I kicked back up toward the cockpit. "Right now, we need to make a call."
"I wonder what's taking Deke so long," I heard her ask quietly behind me as I slowly floated forward.
"He'll be here," I sighed, having to remind myself that I'd asked her to keep an eye on him. "Why don't you keep an eye on the medical monitors and let me know Mat's condition as soon as the diagnostics come up?" Then I was through the corridor and in the pit, leaving her back in the equipment bay.
The commo board, as Mat had told me, was pre-aligned for a laser line-of-sight transmission to a certain set of coordinates---right here in the Centauri Belt, less than twenty-thousand klicks away. I blinked in surprise. General Murdock was somewhere insystem, a chance I didn't believe he would be prepared to take. He must have been very concerned with what we had to say. I activated the board, sent out the preprogrammed contact signal and anchored myself on the seatback, waiting for a reply. My combat high had started to die down, and I was beginning to feel the stinging, itching burn of my various cuts. Blood had matted the hair under my arms, and it hurt like hell to move, but I was hard-pressed not to scratch my many itches.
Mercifully, it wasn't but ten seconds before a shimmering hologram coalesced above the commo board, slowly becoming a face. The face itself, and the body I knew to be connected to it, weren't too prepossessing for arguably the single most powerful man in the Commonwealth military. Chiefs of Staff came and went with the whims of politics, but General Antonin Murdock was a monolithic fixture in StarFleet Intelligence. He knew where the bodies were buried because he'd buried most of them.
But to look at him, you'd think he was an accountant. I remember the first time I'd seen him, when he'd come into the medical bay of the cruiser Patton, after it had picked up the survivors of the Thatcher. I'd thought he was one of the ship's medics. He had this pale, thin face, with ears and nose that belonged on someone ten centimeters taller and twenty kilos heavier, only further accented by the buzz cut of his dark brown hair. I did notice his gentle eyes, so soft and brown you'd think he was about to break into tears.
It was all a superb camouflage job, a natural chameleon suit that hid the most efficient, creative and dangerous man I'd ever known. Over twenty years ago, before the Second War had even broken out, he'd analyzed the effects of the Transition drive on warfare and determined the need for the Glory Boys. He'd bided his time, marshaled his resources and cultivated his favors, until the time came that a cadet training ship was caught up in the Battle for Mars. Out of three hundred of us on that ship, only a dozen had survived to accept Murdock's offer to undergo the augmentation process and become the most elite commando group in human history. Of that dozen, only seven of us had lived through the war.
There had been some days that I'd hated the Colonel so badly I'd wanted to rip his guts out with my talons, and I'm sure I wasn't the only one that had felt that way. Yet as I faced his image there on the courier, all I could think of was the way he'd covered my ass when I came back from Canaan. Despite the positive results of my little escapade, I could very easily have been court-martialed and executed for desertion, not to mention disobeying orders and stealing a multimillion credit starship. But he'd called in his old debts, and somehow a set of orders had appeared, back-dated to the time I'd left, authorizing me to set up a civilian resistance on Canaan.
He didn't have to do that.
"It's been a long time, Mitchell," he said in that incongruously gentle voice, not showing any surprise he might have had that I was the one calling him.
"I wish it were under better circumstances, sir. I'm afraid there's been some trouble. We were attacked---Mat's been hurt, but he'll be all right. He'll be in the automed for a while, but he wanted me to contact you immediately."
"I was afraid something like this might happen." Murdock shook his head sadly. "It's alarming they'd have the nerve to so openly attack one of ours."
"I'm not completely certain they're through yet," I admitted. "We still haven't heard from Deke. I think it would be wise if we met with you personally as soon as possible."
"Take the courier to these coordinates." He rattled off the numbers. "Wait there. As soon as we think it's safe, we'll meet you." He didn't wait for a reply, just signed off, and the hologram abruptly faded.
I shut down the board, frowning. I don't think he fully trusted me, but there wasn't a lot I could do about it. Hopefully, he'd give us a chance to talk before he opened fire. Sighing with a deep sense of impotence, I pushed off back toward the equipment bay. We had to try to find Deke...
I knew something was wrong even before I emerged from the corridor. There were too many heartbeats and too much heat emanating from the bay---enough for at least three people. I tried to pull myself to a halt, extending my talons and dragging them against the bulkhead, but it was already too late; my momentum had carried me to the end of the short corridor.
Whatever I'd expected to see there, the scene that unfolded before me was not it. Deke and Kara were there, and seemingly unharmed, but the focus of my attention was the huge handgun pointed in our general direction and the big man holding it. I recognized both, and both for their distinctiveness.
The gun was an anachronism, much like the man that held it. Big and bulky, it was still light for its size, since it was merely the launching platform for miniature, gyrostabilized rocket rounds. The weapon had been introduced more than a hundred and fifty years ago, and had long ago been made obsolete by pulse lasers and Gauss guns, but its versatility and the introduction of modern, high-tech, armor-piercing rounds made the rocket pistol a popular choice among special ops units during the war.
It had rode low at the side of this man for all of the six years we'd served together, and had seemed to be as much a part of him as his lantern jaw and gunmetal grey eyes. He was an imposing figure at just u
nder a full two meters---of course, to a heavy-g shorty like myself, everyone over a meter-eight is imposing---with a broad upper body narrowing at the waist. His brown hair was cut short and spiky in front, but travelled down his neck into a rat-tail, an affectation he'd adapted since the war, and the well-trimmed mustache I remembered had grown into a bushy handlebar that drooped down past his chin.
The last time I'd seen him he'd been wearing StarFleet utilities that clashed starkly with the black leathers he wore now, but there was no mistaking who the man was. His name was Roger West, Major, Commonwealth StarFleet, retired; but we'd always known him as Cowboy. What the hell he was doing here now, pointing that big hogleg at us, I had no idea.
"Howdy, Cal," he drawled, throwing me a two-fingered salute. "How's life treating ya'?"
"Better all the time, Cowboy," I said, retracting my talons and trying to keep calm. I glanced at his gun, shaking my head in disgust. "I knew I should have tried to bribe those damned customs officers."
"I ran into old Rog on the way here," Deke spoke up. "He expressed an interest in speaking to you."
"For a man who spent the last ten years on one backwater colony," Kara commented, "you sure run into old friends in the oddest places."
Friends...that might be too strong a word for my relationship with Cowboy; comrades-in-arms, yes, but never really friends. I'm not sure if Cowboy ever let any of us get close enough to really be his friend.
"What's it going to be, Cowboy?" I asked him after a moment. "You want to tell us what you want and why you're here, or just shoot us and put us out of our misery?"
"Don't rush the man, Caleb," Deke muttered, glaring at me.
"Y'know, Cal, there's a lot of reasons I looked you fellahs up," Cowboy replied, pulling a cigar out of his jacket pocket and inserting it unlit between his teeth with a dramatic flare. "'Bout two million of 'em, t'be exact."
"Those Corporates sure are generous with their bounty money," Deke reflected, seeming a bit envious.
"So, you do this for a living now?" I asked West, not at all surprised. Professional bounty hunting wasn't uncommon since the war---with the proliferation of personal starships, it had become nearly impossible for the Commonwealth authorities to track down every wanted criminal in the Cluster.
"Mostly," he shrugged. "Not too many jobs out there where a fellah like me can use his experience."
"How did you find us?" Kara demanded.
"I tracked you, Captain McIntire, to Canaan," he told her. "After I found out ol' Cal here was involved, I figured he'd wind up trying to contact Murdock eventually. From what I seen back there," he jerked a thumb back in the general direction of the lift banks, "I'm not the only one who followed that line of thinkin'."
"Are you here to take us in, Cowboy?" I cut directly to the chase. "Because if you are, you might as well shoot us now."
West looked me long and hard in the eye, finally sighed, and stuffed his pistol into a holster under his jacket.
"I got t'admit," he said, smiling tightly, "the temptation was there---hard t'say no t'two million in Corporate scrip. But after what I saw on Canaan," he continued, shaking his head, a dark look passing across his face, "I can't but believe y'all are in the right. I want to help, if y'all will have me."
"I need a drink," Deke let out a deep breath he'd been holding.
"Nice to know we're not on our own anymore..." Kara was saying. But my mind was focused on West's words.
"What do you mean, 'after what you saw on Canaan'?" I asked him, troubled by the phrase.
"Y...you mean y'didn't know?" He frowned deeply. "I'm sorry, Cal...it was the CSF. They found out your wife and brother were at that hospital in the mountains." He hesitated, and it seemed to me that time had stopped and his next words would never come---they were a sword of Damocles hanging eternally above me.
"They destroyed the whole place with assault shuttles, killed everyone there."
I felt like someone had kicked me full-force in the nuts...my breath went out of me, and a strange numbness spread simultaneously through my gut and my head with such speed that I thought I might pass out. My mind drifted in a sea of fog, unable to deal with the concrete reality of what West had told me. I dimly registered Deke and Kara saying something, felt their hands touching my shoulders in comfort, but all I could comprehend---the only thing that penetrated the thick haze around my brain---was a voice as real and present as any of those around me, shouting one accusation over and over inside my head.
"YOU!" It screamed at me. "They're dead because of YOU!"
I didn't yell, or rage, or scream or even cry---I didn't have the strength for it. I felt like my life force had been drained, and if I had not been in zero gravity, I would have keeled over. I tried to give myself over to the Machine, but the Machine was gone and I was all alone, an embryo adrift in the universe. When I finally spoke, I couldn't trust myself to say anything about it.
"We need to leave here," I said hoarsely. "The General's waiting for us."
"What about our ships---Cowboy's and mine?" Deke asked. I looked at him like he'd spoken to me in some undiscovered alien language and he fell silent, red-faced.
"Leave them here," Kara said. "If things work out with the General, we can come back and get them. If not...well, we probably won't be alive to care."
Chapter Eleven
I wanted to crawl into a hole and pull it in after me, but I didn't even have that comfort. The flight to the coordinates Murdock had given us was too short for that luxury. Kara and I barely had time to clean ourselves off and use the courier's first-aid supplies to patch each other's more gaping cuts before we arrived at the arranged spot. At least we didn't have to wait long for the General to make an appearance---we hadn't been at the meet point more than ten minutes before his ship cruised in on impellers. I watched the sensors over Deke's shoulder as I pulled on one of the spare flight jackets Kara and I had found in a utility closet---ours had been shredded in the fight.
He came in on a cutter, a ship big enough for the courier to nestle in its small docking bay, and I surmised that was exactly how Mat had come in, in order to throw off anyone who observed him arriving. It was rather ostentatious for a personal transport, but I guess rank hath its privileges. We turned over control of the courier to Murdock's pilot and were guided into the bay, our hatch matching up with the inner airlock.
I viewed it all mechanically, past caring whether or not Murdock would believe or help. I hoped for Kara's sake she could be persuasive, because I didn't think I'd be much help.
Once the airlock had pressurized, our inner hatch swung outward, and a pair of faceless covert ops types glided through, dressed in byomer reflex suits with visored helmets, and toting wicked-looking electron beamers. They didn't speak to us as they swept through the ship, checking us and everything else for hidden bombs and weapons. One of them confiscated Cowboy's handgun, and I thought for a second from the look on his face that he was going to argue about it, but the heavy weaponry evidently silenced his complaint.
Once they completed their check, one positioned himself just inside the hatch while the other went back through the lock to report. He had been gone for several minutes when we all felt the nauseating jolt of Transition, and slowly began sinking to the deck as artificial gravity cut in. I figured we were heading somewhere at a more comfortable distance from Earth. When the guard returned he was followed by General Murdock.
The Bulldog, that's what they'd called him, though not for his physique, nor for his temperament---indeed he was an incredibly unremarkable specimen in an age where many engineered their bodies to their liking, at only a meter-six and less than eighty kilos; and he had the manners of a professional diplomat. No, he was called the Bulldog, in admiration by his supporters and scorn by his enemies, because once he'd set his teeth into a matter, he would never let go. He'd fought for the creation of Omega Group for nearly five years against ridicule and threats of demotion, but he'd never let the idea go. He was also the Bulldog because
larger and more powerful dogs kept jumping into the ring with him and leaving bloodied and beaten.
He moved into the Ismael's equipment bay and looked the situation over without so much as a twitch of surprise at Cowboy's presence. He spared me a nod before his eyes settled on Kara.
"You must be the infamous Captain McIntire." He offered her a hand, which she shook uncertainly. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"Likewise, sir." She actually seemed respectful. I don't think I'd heard her use a respectful tone since I'd met her.
Murdock motioned to one of the guards and the man stepped sharply forward.
"Have Colonel M’voba transferred to the medical bay," he ordered, then turned to us before the man had a chance to respond. "Let's talk in my situation room." He turned and strode quickly out of the hatch, leaving us scrambling to follow. Above all else, the Bulldog was a man who was used to being obeyed immediately and without question.
* * *
"You do spin quite a yarn," General Murdock commented after Kara, Deke and I laid out our story. "If I was auditing this in a ViRdrama, I'd call it hopelessly unrealistic."
At Murdock's words I felt my throat tighten. If he didn't believe us, this was all for nothing.
The General's "situation room" was a large cabin that featured a holographic map of the Cluster hanging in the air over an oval table, inlaid with controls linking it to the ship's mainframe. The crimson threads of the Transition Lines were the web that bound the Cluster together, cutting human/Tahni space off arbitrarily from the rest of the Spiral Arm and the whole of the galaxy through the whims of hyperdimensional physics. What lay beyond that gravitoinertial wall remained as mysterious to us as the depths of the human heart.