But the raider was built, almost completely, with Federation technology. The only major piece of equipment that wasn't Federation in origin was a pair of pulse cannons that had been bolted onto the hull. Stocker had noted that they’d been designed by a colonial shipping company and rushed into production to give their freighters some firepower during the early days of the war. In fact, Stocker had concluded, he would have assumed that the ship was Federation if the crew had been wearing uniforms and the safety interlocks still functional.
It raised questions that Glen didn't like at all. Could the raiders be working for a faction in the Federation? The Humanist League, perhaps? They certainly had a motive for wanting to exterminate vast numbers of aliens, even though their electoral showing had been poor even in the colonies. Or ... he shook his head. It was possible, he supposed, that someone in the government was trying to provoke a political crisis, but in his experience such plots never worked. Besides, if the tension between the Federation and the Bottleneck Republic exploded into war, the Federation might not survive.
But, he asked himself, what if that is what they’re counting on?
There were Dragon warlords out there, beyond the edge of Federation territory. What if they were trying to spark off a human civil war?
“No proof,” he muttered, in frustration. “No proof at all, one way or the other.”
His terminal bleeped, reporting that a set of messages had been received and forwarded to his desk. Glen sighed as he realised that the first one was from the Governor. There was a joke among spacers that hyperspace was clear when bad news was being sent, but good news required several relay stations before it reached its destination. Glen didn't believe in the stories spacers told about strange gods and monsters in hyperspace – none of those stories had ever been recorded, let alone verified – yet there were times when he wondered. Bad news always seemed to come quickly.
He scanned the first message and swore out loud. The Governor had complemented him on his victory, then informed him that she had demanded that the Colonial Militia provide protection to the remaining alien camps. Given that there were twenty-nine possible targets, Glen suspected that the militia would be unable to meet her demands. Besides, the whole question of just who had legal authority over the Colonial Militia was about to explode into the open. And that would raise a whole new can of worms.
The second message came from Bottleneck. It didn't make pleasant reading. The Federation media had heard about the attacks and were demanding that something – anything – be done to protect the aliens from human racists. Glen had tried to ignore everything his brothers had taught him about corporate-media relations, but he knew enough to realise that someone was quietly pushing the whole affair behind the scenes. Most of the Federation’s citizens took their news from the media alone, rather than the datanets; they’d believe what they were told about the destroyed camps.
By this time, nothing would have surprised him as he reached the final segment. Admiral Porter had ordered him to extend protection to the alien camps. There was a distinct whiff of ass-covering, Glen decided; he had orders to engage raiders and pirates wherever he found them. If questions were already being asked in the Federation Senate, and the report stated that they were, Admiral would want to make it clear that he had given orders to deal with the situation. But one starship, no matter how powerful, couldn't cover every possible target.
There was no mention of any reinforcements, Glen noted, as he reached the end of the message. The observed enemy squadron was too powerful for anything less than another squadron, although if they’d retreated from Dauntless and Independence a handful of guardian starships should suffice for each planet. Somehow, he doubted that the Colonial Militia would be willing or able to spare the ships, while the Federation Navy was refusing to provide any reinforcements. He wrote out a brief note expressing his doubts, then turned to the third message. It was no improvement.
Cynthia called him as he was reading the message for the second time. “Captain, I received an intelligence packet from Bottleneck,” she said. She sounded tired and worn. “I need to discuss it with you.”
“Come to my office,” Glen ordered. Two minutes later, Cynthia stepped through the hatch and saluted. “What happened?”
“They were tracing the ships we identified,” Cynthia said. “They were all ex-TFN, but they were decommissioned and sold to shipping agents.”
Glen nodded impatiently. He’d known as much already.
“There should be a paper trail for such warships,” Cynthia said. “They’re not light freighters, they’re actual warships. When they’re sold, the buyers have to prove themselves. Sir, these ships were definitely sold to the Colonial Militia.”
“Shit,” Glen said. After the end of the war, hundreds of smaller warships had been decommissioned and sold. The colonies hadn't been the only ones purchasing them. Every planet in the Federation with spare funds wanted some additional protection for their orbitals, or escorts for their shipping. “Are you sure?”
“There were a number of agents representing the Colonial Militia,” Cynthia said. “They didn't just rely on one person. All of them had access to colonial funds; they were vetted and cleared by ONI. One of them purchased the ships and had them legally transferred to the militia. After that ... nothing. I don’t think anyone in ONI bothered to track them.”
She took a breath. “It’s possible, Captain, that they were purchased by a rogue faction,” she added. “The militia isn't a united force. Hell, God knows the TFN has had problems when the right hand didn't know what the left was doing. But this is more than a little worrying.”
“More than a little,” Glen repeated, dryly. He stared down at the desk. The General had impressed him ... but what if he’d been wrong? What if the General really was behind the raiders? “What the hell do we do now?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The first week on the raider ship – her name turned out to be Extreme – was quite informative, once Sandy had mastered the art of listening while saying nothing. It was strange to watch the crew rub shoulders in a very unprofessional manner, then maintain standards that were as professional as any naval organisation. But they boasted and bragged and most of their stories, while not always believable, helped to tell her more about her new environment. The crewmen were largely mercenaries, all drawn from the dregs; few of them, she decided, had any real hope of legitimate careers. No wonder they were prepared to do just about anything to get money.
It was clear that the crews had been reshuffled just before Sandy came onboard, allowing the experienced officers and crew to mentor the newcomers – and watch them for signs of backsliding into morality and decent behaviour. Sandy kept her head down and tried not to be noticed, all the while listening to worrying stories and watching as her fellows were quietly assessed. The crewmen who looked sickened at the stories of aliens burning in plasma fire were sometimes taken away, never to be seen again. Sandy suspected that they’d been put out the airlock into hyperspace. Their bodies would eventually drift into a storm, destroying all physical evidence.
Or maybe they’ve just been killed and vaporised, she thought, sourly. It was clear that the raiders took security very seriously. There was a list of subjects that could not be discussed and anyone who broke the rule was shocked, then taken away. A couple had been returned, looking pale and wan; others had never been seen again, just like those who expressed too many doubts. They wouldn't take the risk of leaving even the slightest piece of evidence behind.
But it was her work with the computer cores that had proven the most rewarding. Few civilians really realised just how much data was absorbed by the cores, including the live feed from every system on the starship. She could, with a little effort, pull out data from the fusion cores or the targeting systems, although the navigational database was still closed to her. It made no sense until she decided that the navigators probably stored the essential data in their implants, allowing them to fly the ship wit
hout reference to the main computer. The scheme was risky, but very secure. There was no way she could get the information without compromising her own position.
The frustrating part was that she could have sent a message to Dauntless, if the ship had had a transmitter. It didn’t; the FTL transmitter that should have been able to beam an emergency signal through hyperspace had simply been removed. That, Sandy knew, was a serious offence in the Federation Navy. The raiders probably didn't want to emit anything that might draw the wrath of the Colonial Militia or the Federation Navy down on their heads, but it was still chancy. What if they were disabled and required help?
No one would help them, she told herself, crossly. Besides, they weren't in the heart of the Federation. A distress call might not bring help, or help might come too late to be of any actual assistance. And they’re not stupid enough to allow their crews access to FTL transmitters.
Her regular duties were boring, so boring that she tended to assume that she was being tested by the raider commanders. All she had to do was vet new computer cores, reprogram them to match the raider specifications and then install them in various systems on the ship. She took advantage of the access as much as possible, but she didn't quite dare upload permanent monitoring programs. It was clear that at least one of the raider crew was a skilled computer tech and he might well notice what she’d done. Instead, she peeked as much as she could and prayed that she would discover something interesting. But there was very little.
The raiders hadn't given her a private cabin, unsurprisingly. She’d been told that she would be sharing a large compartment with twelve others, all women. It was odd to realise that the raiders were protecting the younger women, although her violent defence of her person had won her some respect from the male crew. The more she studied the crew and their officers, the more she realised that they didn't quite make sense. They seemed a bizarre combination of disciplined naval officers and undisciplined pirates, sometimes both at once.
But it made meeting Jess difficult. There were bugs in the cabin, visual and audio pickups the raiders hadn't even tried to hide. Sandy kept her thoughts to herself – after years in both the Colonial Militia and the Federation Navy, privacy was something she could live without – and looked for places they could meet that weren't so heavily watched. But the raider ship was infested with surveillance systems, as if the officers didn't really trust their crew. The only place that seemed to be completely free of pickups was the bridge.
“I had to prove myself,” Jess said, when they met in one of the privacy tubes. Their presence added weight to her theory that the ship’s officers had been trained by the Federation. The Colonial Militia had never been so uptight about relationships among its crewmen, regardless of rank and station. “One of the dickheads didn't really think I was a Marine.”
Sandy winced, casually dropping her jacket on the visual pickup. It would look like an accident, she hoped. Someone had a filthy mind; the pickup was perfectly placed to observe and record everything that took place on the bed. Looking up at Jess’s face, it was evident that she had been in a fight. There was a nasty dark bruise on her chin.
“I thumped him into submission,” Jess said. She made a kissing sound for the benefit of the microphones. “You should have seen it.”
Sandy lifted her hands and signed out a brief message. The room was still bugged. Modern bugs, she knew, couldn't be fooled by loud music or sexual recordings with the volume turned up to max. The supporting computers would isolate their voices and flag it up for operator attention, suspecting that they were trying to hide something. Sandy knew enough about the system to know that fooling it would be tricky.
Jess nodded in understanding, then signed out another message. Nothing to report, beyond sorting out the pecking order among the mercenaries. Absent the rank structure of the Marines or any other military unit, they had to sort out a chain of command for themselves, then stick to it. Jess being challenged was not surprising, although Sandy had warned her not to try to unseat her superior. All she needed was to be accepted by the mercenaries. They had to know she could fight.
“It's been too long,” Sandy said. She sat down on the bed and discovered that it squeaked, loudly. Someone had definitely done that deliberately. “I need you now.”
Ham, Jess signalled. “I have to go back to the training bay,” she said, out loud. “But we can meet here again in two hours.”
Sandy lifted an eyebrow, but Jess merely winked at her and walked out, leaving her to muss up her hair slightly and then head out herself. The handful of crewmen in the corridor eyed lustfully at her, although none of them tried anything stupid. Sandy had proved herself, after all; she’d never been punished for breaking her would-be groper’s nose. The raiders seemed to like people who stood up for themselves. It was just another piece in the puzzle. Just because it didn't make sense now, she told herself, didn't mean that it would always be impossible to understand.
She returned, two hours later, to discover that they had to wait to use the compartment. It was another twenty minutes before they could enter the privacy chamber, during which time several crewmen stared at them and called out lewd suggestions. Sandy allowed herself a sigh of relief as they entered the chamber, then dropped her jacket on the pickup for the second time. Jess found the audio pickup and started to fiddle with it, removing the protective cover and attaching a piece of technology Sandy didn't recognise to the device.
“We used these in the Battle of Sphere-Prime, when we were fighting our way through the alien cities,” she said, softly. “They had the entire place wired for sound. Once we noticed, we started shooting out the pickups, then we started rigging them to send back false information. It was a fun time.”
“I'm sure it was,” Sandy said, dryly. “Won’t they notice?”
“All they’ll hear is silence,” Jess assured her. “We won’t be in here long enough for them to notice anything else.”
Sandy nodded. “And the room is completely soundproof,” she said. She shook her head. There was no time to talk about non-essentials. “Have you found anything interesting?”
“Only that our next destination is going to be somewhere bigger than any previous target,” Jess said, shortly. “I’ve been put in command of a bunch of ignorant kids and told to get them ready for action. They’d be chewed apart if they didn't have any orbital fire support, Sandy. These guys are completely unready for guard duty, let alone planetary assault.”
Sandy frowned. “That's not a bad thing, is it?”
“Not for whoever they’re attacking,” Jess said, tightly. “But it suggests that they don't really give a shit what happens to their soldiers.”
“I understand,” Sandy said. She did; Jess was a professional and seeing people act so unprofessionally in her speciality bothered her. “I don’t suppose they told you the target?”
Jess shook her head. “I’ve spent most of my time with the little brats,” she said. “God, most of them are barely old enough to shave. I had to knock three of them down because they didn't have the common sense to learn from me, damn it.
“So no, I don’t know where we’re going. I do know that there’s going to be a bloody slaughter, because that's what they’re been psyched up to do. When they’re off-duty, they’re allowed to drink and take drugs and cut loose ... there's a complete lack of actual discipline there. And they talk endlessly about burning and raping and killing.”
Sandy gritted her teeth. The Colonial Militia, having a shorter training period than the Federation Navy, managed to get more than its fair share of blowhards who thought that watching gory entertainment flicks was the same as actually doing it. Most of them were rapidly put straight by their commanders – or actual action – but a handful somehow managed to stay that way until they died. They were rarely allowed anywhere near a training facility.
But if the raider recruits were being deliberately primed for slaughter, rather than giving them training and discipline ... it made no sense. She co
uld understand why someone would want to kill thousands of aliens, even though she didn't share that ambition, but why would they want to send untrained recruits into the teeth of enemy fire? It was almost as if the raiders had a split personality; one willing to keep disciplined crews, the other prepared to embrace indiscipline to the point where it was actively harmful. Could the spacers and ground-pounders be completely separate? No, because no one had objected to Jess spending time with her ...
“It makes no sense,” she said, frustrated. “What the hell are they playing at?”
“They’re expanding,” Jess said. She smiled, humourlessly. “My current boss, who claims to have been a Marine Raider and is more likely to have been a colonial marshal at some point, says that half of his staff were taken away to other ships. He was bitching endlessly about not having his own officers, even though he seems to think that I'm an acceptable replacement most of the time. God alone knows how many ships they have now.”
Knight's Move Page 26