Knight's Move

by Nuttall, Christopher

  “Welcome,” he said, dryly. “You came close to having your feathers burned.”

  “Yes, we did,” Jason said. There was no point in trying to deny it. They had been lucky to escape without exchanging fire with the Federation cruiser. “But we made it out.”

  “So you did,” Mr. Ford observed. A masked steward appeared, carrying a tray. He placed it down on the table, revealing three small glasses of a dark red liquid. “Finest Quebecoise Red, to celebrate your escape.”

  Jason lifted an eyebrow – Quebecoise Red was expensive – then took a sip. He had never developed a taste for fine wines, but he had to admit that the drink was surprisingly good. Beside him, Dana gulped it as if it were water and put the glass back down on the tray. Mr. Ford showed no visible reaction to her at all.

  “Thank you,” he said, shortly. “Was there a reason you called us here so quickly?”

  “My backers are very pleased with the success of your operations so far,” Mr. Ford said. “They wished me to make that clear to you.”

  Jason nodded, thoughtfully. It had barely been a day since they’d fled the Federation cruiser. If word had reached Mr. Ford so quickly, his backers had to be based in the Fairfax Cluster. He doubted that anywhere past Bottleneck had heard the news yet, although the chain of relay stations were no doubt thrumming with activity as word headed back towards Earth. There was an agreement that he wouldn't try to track down his employers, but it was always interesting to collect data. If nothing else, he could ensure that they wouldn't be abandoned when things went south.

  It was unlikely that anyone in the Fairfax Cluster would care about the aliens, no matter how many of them died. But colonials had died too – and worlds had been threatened with starvation. The reasons might be different, but both the Federation Navy and the Colonial Militia would want their heads on a platter. And if the heat grew too intense, betrayal would become a very real possibility.

  “Thank you,” he said, out loud. “And what would they like us to do next?”

  “We believe that the Governor will insist on the remaining supplies being delivered, regardless of any possible ... consequences,” Mr. Ford continued. “She is a political creature and making grand gestures is her habit, even though it would be wiser to hold the supplies until the camps can be secured. In that case, we can expect the Federation cruiser to escort the remaining freighters to the next destination. Again, we want you to attack the camp after the supplies have been delivered.”

  Jason considered it. They would be repeating their previous pattern, creating the very real danger that the Federation Navy would lay a trap. After the last attack, it would certainly be anticipated. But one ship, no matter how powerful, couldn't hope to cover all the bases. His fleet could jump in, hammer the camp from orbit, and then vanish. They wouldn't even bother to bombard the colonial settlements this time. It would only infuriate the Colonial Militia and raise the risk of mutiny among his troops.

  “We will certainly do our best,” he said. “Do you have proper tactical information?”

  “Enough,” Mr. Ford said. He produced a datachip and passed it to Jason. “I expect you to be careful, as well as successful.”

  “I always am,” Jason said, irritated. “What else do you have for me?”

  “Four new ships, all assault cruisers,” Mr. Ford said. “They’ve been heavily reengineered to ensure that they can be operated with minimal crews, but they still require at least a couple of hundred crewmen each. Can you crew them?”

  “With difficulty,” Jason admitted. The more recruits he brought into the organisation, the greater the chance of someone snapping at the wrong time, particularly when they found out what they’d actually joined. Enforcing loyalty required a strong hand and a steady eye, but he was having to reinforce his supervisors too. There were limits to what automated systems could do. “We’re still recruiting more people for the crews.”

  “The ships will be waiting for you at the normal place,” Mr. Ford said. He took a sip of his glass, then continued. “You should be thinking about expanding your operations. We may require something more dangerous from you in the future.”

  Jason lifted his eyebrows in exaggerated shock. “More dangerous?”

  “Quite,” Mr. Ford agreed. “But I will tell you about it when the time comes.”

  He stood and drained his glass. “You will be escorted back to your shuttle,” he added. He dropped a handful of untraceable credit coins on the table, which Jason snatched up and checked automatically. “And good luck with your next operation.”

  Jason watched him go, wondering just who he was working for. The sheer level of resources invested in the operation was staggering, even if starships and mercenary crewmen were relatively cheap in the aftermath of the war. And all to kill a few hundred thousand aliens ... it seemed too much effort, somehow. Unless there was something else in mind, something that required a formidable squadron ...

  He shook his head, dismissing the thought. It didn't matter, he reminded himself, as long as he got paid. And they had been paid. Even after the expenditure of maintaining the squadron, he still had plenty of money to spend. He could keep the squadron going for years, without any further income. And he could make himself a player out beyond the borderline, taking a handful of worlds as a private kingdom. Who would stop him?

  “More aliens to kill,” Dana said. She was happy, as long as she could play her games. “And new recruits to investigate.”

  “Just don't kill any of them,” Jason ordered. He paused, considering. Dana could be more disconcerting than an entire regiment of Dragon torturers, all armed to the teeth. “Unless it’s strictly necessary, of course.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Hands,” the guard ordered.

  Sandy stood, careful to keep her hands in plain sight. Apart from the Captain and his XO, no one onboard Independence had been told about their mission. Instead, they’d been informed that Sandy and Jess were former militiamen who were going to be dumped on Dawson instead of being shot. There were some, she knew, who would have considered being shot a lesser punishment. The story probably wouldn't stand up to close scrutiny, but as none of the ship’s crew would be on Dawson long enough to be interrogated, it probably wouldn't matter.

  She turned, allowing the guard to cuff her hands behind her back. The guard didn't know the truth, but she still felt a flash of anger as he tightened the cuffs, then attached shackles to her ankles. Walking at anything more than a shuffle was now impossible. Jess came forward at his command and was cuffed herself, her eyes glinting with suppressed amusement. If the guard had realised just what she was, he would have stunned her at long distance before going anywhere near her. Jess could have caught his hands and broken out of the brig before he quite realised what was happening.

  “You know,” the guard told her snidely, “there are people who would pay good money to see you in cuffs.”

  Sandy silently promised herself revenge later, even though she couldn't really blame the guard for his attitude. Betrayal was the ultimate sin in the eyes of the Bottleneck Republic, everything from breaking one’s word to betraying one’s people. Their fake personas had made an agreement with the militia when they’d joined up, an agreement they’d broken. It wasn't too surprising, she knew, that the guard wanted to hurt and humiliate them. A betrayal at the wrong time could be disastrous.

  The guard clicked open the hatch, then motioned for them to walk down the passageway and into the shuttlebay. A trio of armed guards were already waiting for them, watching coldly as the two women entered the compartment. Sandy let out a gasp as one of them picked her up bodily and dumped her into the shuttle, then attached her chains to the seat to ensure she couldn't move, let alone escape. Jess joined her a moment later, rolling her eyes when only Sandy could see. Compared to basic training in Marine boot camp, this was no challenge at all.

  Sandy braced herself as the shuttle pilot slammed on the drive, hurling the shuttle out of the shuttlebay and into open s
pace. The Colonial Militia had no time for the gentle entrances and exits performed by Federation Navy pilots; they sought to get every craft out of the mothership as quickly as possible, regardless of health and safety concerns. Sandy couldn’t help feeling a wave of vertigo as the ill-tuned compensator fought to protect its charges from the acceleration, then swallowed hard as the shuttle dived into the planet’s atmosphere. The pilot was either insane or he was doing his best to give the prisoners an unpleasant ride. She couldn't help noticing that her escorts – and Jess – were unfazed by the flight.

  There was a dull crash as the shuttle came down, harder than strictly necessary. The hatch clicked open, allowing a gust of hot air to enter the shuttle. Sandy took a breath and winced at the scent of sand. Dawson had never been a particularly habitable planet, which was at least partly why the Bottleneck Republic had never tried to assert its authority over the system. Besides, she had to admit, it would have been hypocritical. What was the point of trying to declare independence – or at least autonomy – from the Federation while forcing a small isolated world to join the Republic?

  Not that it would have been unprecedented, she thought, as the guards unlocked her chains and helped her to her feet. The Nova Scotia settlers wanted independence from Albion, but they also wanted to keep control of New Glasgow, which didn't want to join them in independence.

  The guards thrust her out of the shuttle, revealing that they’d landed at a battered-looking spaceport. If there were any entry/exit controllers, they didn't seem to be in evidence. The handful of people watching them were doing it at a safe distance, without coming close to the shuttle or the formidable-looking armed guards. In the distance, half-hidden in the haze, she could see a cluster of buildings. The sky was blue, allowing the sun to beat down mercilessly. According to her implant, it was local morning and the temperature was already close to unbearable. Chances were that not much happened during the local day. People would be too busy hiding from the heat.

  “On your knees,” the guard growled. Sandy obeyed. He ritually ripped her rank patch from her shoulder, then the Colonial Militia insignia from her collar. Sandy couldn't help feeling a pang as she watched them go, even though she knew that it was all pretence. The guard had no idea that her fake persona didn't exist and she was still a militiaman in good standing. “Lie flat, both of you.”

  Sandy felt the cuffs being removed piece by piece, grimly aware that guns were being pointed at their backs. One false move and they would both be shot like dogs. The guard growled a command, ordering them to remain unmoving until the shuttle was gone, then dropped a pack besides them and walked off. Moments later, the ground shook as the shuttle blasted off towards orbit. Sandy rolled over just in time to see it vanish in the bright blue sky. They were alone on a very unfriendly world.

  Jess stood upright, then picked up the pack and opened it. As they’d planned, the pack contained their false IDs – including their shipping guild records – a handful of supplies and several sealed bottles of water. Sandy took the food and checked it quickly; she wouldn't have put it past the guards to spit on the food when they had a chance. But everything seemed to be fine. She opened one of the bottles and took a long swig, then checked the credit chip at the bottom of the pack. It had enough money loaded on to keep two young women alive for a couple of weeks.

  By then, we’d better be successful, she thought, grimly. Or find a way to send a message back to Dauntless for recovery.

  Jess patted her shoulder, encouragingly. “You call this a hot world? Back in Boot Camp, we had to walk for miles under the blazing sun, stark naked. Half of the men had their balls burned off ...”

  “And then they ate nails for breakfast and iron bars for dinner,” Sandy grunted, as she hefted the pack onto her shoulder. She suspected that most of Jess’s tales were exaggerations, although she knew that Marines had endured far more than any spacer while fighting the Dragons on the ground. “We’d better find some cover before it gets any hotter.”

  She glanced down at the remains of her shipsuit. The grey uniform was standardised, shared by both the Colonial Militia and most commercial organisations, but the missing patches would be enough to show casual onlookers that she was currently unemployed. And the fact that they had clearly been torn away would worry potential employers, if they hadn't already heard that they’d been dumped on Dawson by armed guards. Somehow, she doubted that it would be easy for anyone to find legitimate work after arriving in cuffs and chains.

  Jess led the way towards the edge of the spaceport –there was no fence so it was hard to be sure when they’d crossed the line – and headed towards the city. The sun seemed to grow hotter as they walked; Sandy felt sweat trickling down her back, staining her uniform and making it harder to think clearly. She’d thought that she was in good shape, but it was clear that she'd allowed herself to waste away. Jess, irritatingly, didn't seem to have any real problem with the hike.

  She blinked under the intense glare of the sun as a handful of primitive vehicles drove past them, their drivers hooting and wolf-whistling. None of them stopped to offer them a lift. All of them, she couldn't help noticing, were carrying weapons, some of them clearly of Dragon manufacture. Jess muttered something to her about taking a look at the weapons, once the vehicles had vanished into the distance. Humans rarely used Dragon weapons and vice versa, if only because they were designed for very different sets of hands and claws. Whoever had reengineered the weapons for human use had to have gone further than any weapons master she knew.

  It was a relief when they reached the edge of the city, although it was really more of a small town. There were a large number of stone buildings, several more clearly prefabricated from basic colony supplies ... and a handful of shacks, made out of whatever material came to hand. In the distance, she could see a handful of larger mansions, built out of bricks. The locals were definitely rebuilding after the war, she decided, but there was something oddly impermanent about it. Naturally, she told herself; one day, the forces of law and order would probably come calling at Dawson. On that day, half the population would probably try to flee.

  She glanced up as she heard a flight of shuttles passing overhead, heading towards the other side of town. There was another spaceport there, according to the maps she’d downloaded into her implant, one that handled most of the planet’s traffic. Jess caught her arm and pulled her into a bar. Sandy shivered as she felt the cold air blasting out the moment they opened the door, then sagged in relief. After the heat outside, actual air conditioning was a gift from God.

  “Sit down,” Jess ordered, pushing her towards a table placed against the far wall. “I’ll order drinks.”

  Sandy obeyed, then looked around the bar. It was larger than she’d realised, but with fewer patrons than she would have expected. A handful of men eyed her with expressions ranging from curious to lecherous, a couple of women studied her with ill-concealed interest ... and a single alien, sitting in the far corner, ignored her completely. Sandy couldn't help staring at the alien, fighting down an insane urge to giggle. Even on Earth, where the idea of aliens being equal to humans was most prevalent, it was vanishingly rare to see an alien socially, at least outside diplomatic functions. But here, on a world of criminals, the alien was accepted as an equal.

  The alien probably has money, she thought, as Jess returned with a pair of tall glasses and placed them in front of her. Who cares about race when money is involved?

  “The Spacer’s Union is on the first floor,” Jess said, shortly. “We’ll go up there once we’ve had a drink.”

  Sandy nodded, silently thinking God that she’d brought Jess along. If the heat alone was enough to reduce her to a wreck, Sandy would have been in real trouble if she had tried to complete the mission without Jess. She took a sip of her glass and winced at the taste; Coke Cola might be popular on every human-settled world, but this version wasn't anything like the original. It tasted rather more like syrupy medicine. But it was cold and wet, so she drank i
t, despite the odd taste it left in her mouth.

  “Drinkable,” Jess pronounced, once she’d finished her glass. “Better than the crap they fed us at ...”

  “Boot camp,” Sandy said, rolling her eyes. “And what else did you do there?”

  She finished her own glass, then obediently followed Jess as she stood up and headed for the stairwell. A couple of women and a single man wearing nothing more than shorts gave them curious looks, then looked away when it was clear that the two spacers were going to the Union. Somehow, Sandy wasn't surprised to discover that the Union had a branch on Dawson. The Union could be found everywhere that spacers might need assistance in finding work. An armed man at the top of the stairs eyed them suspiciously, then motioned them into the next room. A middle-aged man sat at a desk, reading a datapad. It didn't look as if he had much work to do.