“Good afternoon,” Sandy said, taking the lead. She dropped her ID down on the table; Jess added hers a moment later. “We’re looking for work. Any kind of work, as long as it gets us off this mudball.”
The man grunted – Sandy couldn't help wondering what sort of crime he’d committed to be dumped on Dawson, as he looked rather out of place on the isolated world – and took the ID chips, inserting them into his reader. Sandy looked around, but the office was bare, apart from a set of pin-ups along one wall. Nude girls smiled back at her, all famous stars from ten or twenty years ago. It said something about the Federation, she decided, that movie stars had still occupied popular attention when the war at its height.
Maybe they did it deliberately, she thought, ruefully. The colonials had never had that option; everyone had known the danger facing them. They didn’t want the population panicking when the Dragons reached Wolf 359.
“Your records are ... poor,” the man said, without looking up. “I do not believe that you could find a long-term contract.”
Jess leaned forward. “But there has to be something you can do,” she cooed. “We’d be ever so grateful.”
Sandy had to fight to keep a straight face. The Marine she knew was gone, replaced by a seductress who seemed willing to do anything, anything at all, just to get off Dawson. But the man would understand, she knew. Without a regular source of income, they would eventually have to prostitute themselves to make ends meet. And, at that point, they would fall into the clutches of the pimping gangs.
“The records you have do not inspire confidence,” the man said. He didn't seem to be affected by Sandy’s display at all. “No skipper wants to take a pair of thieves onto his ship.”
“The money was just resting in our accounts,” Sandy protested. The record stated that they’d embezzled money, then resorted to threats against the purser when he’d discovered the truth in hopes of saving their skins. “We ...”
“Most legitimate skippers are unlikely to accept such claims,” the man said. There was still no hint of emotion in his voice. “There are skippers who might become desperate enough to take you on – and I will add your details to the database – but I feel that it is unlikely.”
He looked up at Jess. “There may be calls for someone with your skills,” he added. “You could make a living here.”
“Put our details on the database,” Jess said. “We’ll see what happens.”
The man snorted, but obeyed. Sandy couldn't help feeling a flicker of sympathy for him as she followed Jess down the stairs and out into the sunlight. Most spacers who ended up marooned were unlikely to get any work that might take them off the planet, no matter what they said or did. Jess, at least, would be offered work on Dawson itself. A former Marine would make a great bodyguard for a local criminal. No doubt the man would already be passing her details to potential employers.
They found a place to sleep for a few days – a tiny hotel, so dirty that it would have been shut down on Fairfax – and then started to explore the city as the sun set in the sky. It was astonishing just how cool the air became once the sun was gone, or how quickly the city came to life. Hundreds of people thronged the streets, all clearly intent on enjoying themselves or taking money from people who wanted to enjoy themselves. Roadside stalls spring out of nowhere, offering cooked food and hot drinks; prostitutes moved from spacer to spacer, offering them their bodies in exchange for a pittance. Sandy overheard one bargaining session and winced at just how little the girl was asking. Unless the cost of living was much lower than she thought, it wouldn't be enough to keep a roof over the girl’s head for a day.
“We have company,” Jess muttered. “Four people, all young men, have been following us for the past ten minutes.”
Sandy resisted the urge to glance back; instead, she kept her eyes on Jess. “Are you sure?”
“We’ve been walking a random course,” Jess said, patiently. “These guys have stayed with us all the time. Question is; what do we do about them?”
They stepped into an darkened alleyway, almost tripping over a man lying on the ground, a bottle pressed to his lips. Sandy thought fast as they moved into the shadows, trying to decide what to do. If the people following them had bad intentions, evasion was the correct answer ... but if they were potential recruiters, they didn't want to avoid them. She gritted her teeth as she heard their shadows entering the alleyway behind them.
“Hey,” a voice called. “We want a word with you.”
Jess turned; Sandy followed her lead. Their shadows were young men, wearing spacer uniforms without rank patches. She didn't recognise the insignia they wore, although that proved nothing. They might well belong to an independent freighter that was currently in orbit. Or they might be raiders.
“And what,” Jess asked, “would you like a word with us about?”
“Quite a few things,” the leader said, with a leer. “But I’m afraid the conversation can't be held here.”
“Really,” Jess said. She didn't sound too eager; it was quite possible that the men had rape in mind, instead of recruitment. “And do you think us foolish enough to go with you?”
The leader held up a stubby weapon. Sandy recognised it, too late, as a stunner. Jess started to move forward, but there was no way she could snatch the weapon in time. There was a flash of blue-white light and the world faded away into darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Transit complete, Captain,” Helena reported.
“No encroachments, Captain,” Cooke added. “Local space is clear.”
Glen nodded, studying the display. Tottenham had been lucky, as worlds went; the Dragons had occupied the surface, but largely ignored the human population. No one was quite sure why, but they’d shipped in hundreds of thousands of Mice and other alien slaves, instead of trying to enslave the humans. The mystery was still hotly debated, even though the war was over. It wasn't as though the colonists could have offered effective resistance if the Dragons had chosen to crush them.
Perhaps they thought the humans there were useless or criminals, he thought. Tottenham had been settled by a semi-religious group that wanted to go back to nature. Apart from the spaceport, provided by Federation law, there was nothing on the planet that was more advanced than hand-powered technology. Unsurprisingly, the population level was very low; Glen suspected, from the report, that plenty of children simply left when they realised just what their ancestors had left behind. Not everyone wanted to spend their days farming when they could be travelling the stars.
It was also about the only colonial world to treat the aliens decently, although it couldn't provide everything the aliens needed. The Dragons had intended to keep the Mice dependent on food produced by their orbital factories, food that contained the trace nutrients lacking in human food. But the factories had been destroyed during the liberation and no one had realised the Mice needed specific foodstuffs until it was almost too late. The planet had had to import tons of alien food to feed the refugees. Thankfully, the other colonies had been glad to be rid of it.
But the stockpiles were running out, Glen knew, which was why the Governor had picked Tottenham as another place to make a grand gesture. With careful rationing, the supplies on her freighters would keep the aliens going for another few years, hopefully providing time to find a more permanent solution. Glen couldn't help wondering why Tottenham couldn't take in more aliens. It wasn't as if they were short of room, he knew, and the absence of modern technology would put the more paranoid concerns to rest. The aliens could hardly build a steam-powered starship and expect it to fly.
There was nothing in orbit, apart from a single satellite that monitored orbital space for the spaceport. From what Glen had read, the spaceport operators were actually on long-term contracts; the locals had little to do with them, even though they shared the same planet. That was unusual in the Fairfax Cluster, but Tottenham wasn’t the only low-tech world in the Federation. Glen had never understood why anyone would want
to abandon technology, yet if people did want to do it they could. As long as they didn't keep others trapped on the low-tech worlds, the Federation wouldn’t care.
“Take us into orbit,” he ordered. There was no point in asking for shuttles from the surface; there was only one shuttle on the planet and it had to be reserved for emergencies. “And then start unloading as quickly as possible.”
The Governor had been, unsurprisingly, furious at the attack on the alien refugee camp after her supplies had been delivered. She’d ordered Glen to hurry up and deliver the rest of the supplies, then catch the raiders before they killed again. Glen hadn't bothered to point out that he couldn't move much faster, nor could he guarantee that they would even encounter the raiders. Instead, he’d told her that he intended to deliver the supplies to Tottenham and then leave as quickly as possible. By now, he was sure the news would be all over Fairfax. If there was a leak, the raiders would have heard it by now.
He settled back in his command chair, his thoughts drifting back to Sandy and Jess. Independence had rejoined them, after completing her mission, but there was no way to know what had happened after they’d been dumped on Dawson. They might have found the raiders, been dragged onto a pirate ship ... or mugged and killed by the locals. Not knowing bothered him more than he cared to admit. A woman – two women – he'd come to trust and like was in deadly danger and there was nothing he could do to help. It was quite possible that they would vanish without a trace.
“Captain,” Cooke reported, “the unloading has been completed.”
Glen smiled. Tottenham didn't need vast supplies, merely the vital supplements for alien diets. The locals seemed to be encouraging the aliens to produce their own food, as if they had quietly accepted the aliens being there for years to come. Given time, surely some plants could be imported, allowing the alien settlement to become self-sufficient. But the locals might well object, fearing the introduction of crops from a very different ecology. Who knew what they would do to the planet’s ecological balance?
“Good,” he ordered. “Inform Independence that we will be drilling our sensor crews as we head away from the planet.”
“Aye, sir,” Danielle said. There was a long pause. “Independence confirms, Captain.”
“Good,” Glen said. He'd worked out the deception with Independence’s CO, but he'd known that it would be tricky ... if, of course, someone was watching the star system. They’d expect to see Dauntless leaving; they certainly wouldn't attack until they were sure the system was unprotected. “Bring up full sensor sweeps ... now.”
He smiled as the starship’s sensors went to full power, painting Independence and the freighters as possible targets ... and sweeping through empty space, searching for possible hints that a cloaked ship was watching them. Independence brought up her own sensors, scanning space ... if there was anyone nearby, Glen knew, they would be beating a hasty retreat. A cloaked ship was almost defenceless if the target it was stalking knew where it was and opened fire. It wouldn't take more than a single hit to inflict crippling damage.
“Local space seems clear, Captain,” Cooke reported. “The drone is standing by.”
“Generator online, sir,” Helena reported.
“Open the portal,” Glen ordered.
It would be tricky for anyone to maintain a hard sensor lock on Dauntless while under cloak, unless they were very close to the starship’s hull. The distortion caused by eight portals opening into hyperspace would, if everything went according to plan, make it impossible for an observer to tell that Dauntless hadn't actually left the star system. Instead, while the drone took her place, she cloaked. Glen sucked in a breath as the lights dimmed, reminding the crew that they were operating in silent mode. There was something faintly oppressive about being cloaked, even though he knew that it was nothing more than his imagination. His crew would be whispering in the corridors, as if the enemy would hear them if they raised their voices.
“Portals closing,” Helena reported. The drone would be picked up by Independence and held for later recovery. During the war, drones had been deployed freely, but now the beancounters were complaining every time one was lost. “We’re clear, Captain.”
“Take us back towards the planet,” Glen ordered.
And now all they could do, he told himself, was wait. And hope that the enemy didn't change their pattern.
***
“That’s the entire convoy gone, sir,” Dana reported. “They didn't stick around very long, did they?”
Jason shrugged, unconcerned. Tottenham didn't have an FTL communicator, unless one had been attached to the satellite in orbit around the low-tech world. It was unlikely that anyone on the surface would even know that there was an attack underway until the first projectiles started slamming into their targets. But there was little worth bombarding, apart from the spaceport and the alien camp.
“We’ll hold position for one hour,” he said. He wanted to give the Federation cruiser plenty of time to get away from Tottenham before launching the attack. If he’d been in charge of the counter-raider effort, he would have tried to get Tottenham its own FTL communicator. Just because his files said that there wasn't one, he knew, didn't mean that it was actually true. “And then we will move.”
He mentally compiled his plans as the timer ticked away. Once the attack on Tottenham was complete, they would have to pick up the new crew – and break them to the yoke. If Ford was providing them with heavier starships, they would clearly be expected to do more than just bombard alien refugee camps. The mystery of who Ford was actually working for kept running through his head, time and time again. But he honestly couldn't see who benefited, unless it was the Pure Humanity League. Their central tenet was the complete extermination of non-human life. It said a lot about them that they weren't even welcome in the Bottleneck Republic.
Or maybe Ford’s backers intend to carve out their own little empire, he thought. They certainly have the firepower to hold a world or two.
“Time’s up,” Dana said. She sounded satisfied, chillingly so. “Commodore?”
Jason smiled. “Take us into attack position,” he ordered. Unlike their other targets, Tottenham was completely undefended. A single destroyer could have taken out the entire refugee camp and spaceport without problems. “And make sure you kill that satellite in the first pass.”
***
“Captain,” Cooke snapped. “I’ve got ten ships decloaking, advancing towards the planet on attack vector.”
“Keep the cloak in place, but bring us to battle stations,” Glen ordered. The red icons had taken on a terrifyingly familiar appearance. He didn't need the detailed report to identify the ships as the same ones that had escaped Dauntless earlier. “Show me their attack pattern.”
He grimaced as the enemy plan took on shape and form. Tottenham was completely defenceless, so they were going to take their time and have fun. He wondered if they were going to send troops down to the surface, either to kill the aliens or raid the tiny settlements, or if they were just going to blast their targets from orbit. But they’d brought along far too much firepower just for Tottenham. Had they suspected that he would lay an ambush or did they have something else in mind ...?
“Missile separation,” Cooke reported. “They’re engaging the satellite!”
Glen nodded, unsurprised. The satellite was the only way the planet’s spaceport could keep an eye on what was going on in orbit – and it was completely defenceless. By now, alarms would be sounding in the spaceport, but there was nothing they could do. A moment later, the satellite vanished, utterly vaporised by the shipkiller missile. The raiders were deploying a colossal amount of firepower against an insignificant target.
He studied the enemy formation as they spread out, fanning around the world. It looked like a bombardment pattern, even though there were few worthwhile targets on the surface. If mass slaughter was their goal ... but they hadn't slaughtered vast numbers of humans in their earlier attacks, merely ensured that th
ey would starve in the weeks and months to come, unless food supplies were shipped in from elsewhere. He swore as he finally realised just what the enemy were doing. They had a defenceless target, so they were training their personnel.
“Take us as close as you can to the nearest enemy ship,” he ordered. The enemy were sweeping space with their sensors, hunting for potential targets. But they felt safe, he saw; only idiots would light themselves up so clearly when the system wasn't secure. “And prepare to drop the cloak.”
“Aye, sir,” Helena said.
***
“The satellite is gone,” the tactical officer reported. “I’m picking up signals from the spaceport below, demanding to know who we are.”
“How nice of them to show us their location,” Jason said. He grinned, nastily. “You may fire when ready.”
“Yes, sir,” the tactical officer said. “Projectiles locked on target and ...”
“Priority signal from Madden,” the communications officer interrupted. “She’s picking up a cloaked ship!”
Knight's Move Page 23