Sandy flushed, brightly. But Jess was right. Privacy tubes were meant for sex, after all, not private conversations. It was possible that someone would believe that they simply hadn't gotten around to getting undressed, but it would also raise eyebrows. And if someone started to wonder why the pickups weren't picking up everything they should ... she nodded, despite her embarrassment. They couldn't afford to slip now.
She checked her uniform, made sure to muss it a little, then stepped out of the room and headed up to the tactical deck. The ship was almost deserted; she saw only a handful of crewmen until she reached the tactical deck itself, where a handful of new recruits were being tested. One of them was clearly nervous, his hand touching his collar from time to time; the others just looked annoyed at having to prove themselves. Some things were universal, Sandy reflected, and the belief of tactical officers in their own prowess was one of them. In some ways, they were almost as bad as starfighter pilots.
“You did well during the battle,” her supervisor informed her. “We are very pleased.”
“Thank you,” Sandy said, feeling a flicker of relief. She’d managed to purge all the evidence before someone saw it. If she hadn't, she would be being interrogated instead of complemented. “I did my best.”
“The former tactical officer on this starship is being promoted to handle the supervisory post on another starship,” the supervisor continued. “You will be assigned to take his place on the bridge. I trust that this assignment is well within your capabilities?”
Sandy nodded, without hesitation. The old rule about always accepting promotions or never being offered a new one applied here too, she suspected. And if they doubted her loyalties or her willingness to do anything for the cause, she’d be out the airlock before she realised just what had gone wrong. But what was the cause?
“Yes, sir,” she said. If nothing else, she would be in a good position to gather further intelligence. “Where do you want me to go?”
“You will be assigned a new cabin,” the supervisor said. He passed her a key-card with a cabin number printed on the front. “You may also invite your lover to share, if you wish. I want you on the bridge in two hours, ready to familiarise yourself with the console. We will be running tactical exercises until we depart.”
Sandy hesitated, then asked. “When are we going to depart?”
“I have not yet been given permission to inform you,” the supervisor said. His tone didn't change at all. “Move your gear into the new cabin, then report to the bridge in two hours.”
Sandy nodded and obeyed. She didn't have much on the raider ship, apart from her handful of ID and cash chips and a set of clothes she’d drawn from general stores. Still, she took it from her old quarters and headed back towards the command deck. It was easy to notice that half of her old roommates had been moved off the ship, although she had no way to know where they’d gone. Keeping them from forming relationships would also make it harder for any mutineers to search for allies among the crew.
Her new cabin was smaller than her cabin on Dauntless, although there was a surprisingly large washroom attached to the sleeping compartment. There was a faint scent in the air she couldn't identify, but it bothered her enough that she turned the air conditioning on to sweep the stench out of the air. The bedding had clearly been replaced quickly and efficiently. It looked nice, she had to admit, yet it was also a trap. The entire compartment was heavily bugged.
They don’t want to take any risks, she thought, with a hint of admiration. The more people who were brought into the raider squadron, the greater the chance of picking up someone who reported back to the Federation – or the Colonial Militia. Normally, no one in the Bottleneck Republic would bother to monitor the mercenary community, but these weren't normal times. They had to assume the worst.
Shaking her head, she called Jess, then invited her into the washroom. There were no shortage of bugs there too – constant observation would be enough to drive anyone neurotic – but it was simple enough to block them enough to hold a signed conversation. Jess would have to join her in her cabin, which would raise other problems, unless they could find an excuse to avoid it. Jess signalled that she had to stay with the trainees, for the moment. It would be at least a week before she could consider taking some time away from them, even to spend time with her lover.
Sandy rolled her eyes, but nodded. The tactical console on the bridge would allow her to insert her message into the transmitter, then send it when the assault got underway. If they were lucky, the Colonial Militia or the Federation Navy would show up at the raider base soon afterwards, ready to smash it flat. And then the raiders, at the very least, would need years to regroup.
They’re still going to attack one more world, she thought. But we can make sure that world is the last one they ever hurt.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“These conditions are not acceptable,” Susan said. “I must insist ...”
Glen tuned her out as he followed Stocker through Hayseed’s Dream. She was a standard bulk freighter, normally designed to shift vast loads of cargo between the stars. Now, the engineering crew had reconfigured her bulkheads and improved her life support to ensure that she could provide accommodation for thousands of aliens, at least for ten days. After that, according to the engineers, the system would rapidly start to collapse.
The interior of the ship was dark and cold. Humans wouldn't like it; somehow, he doubted that the aliens would like it either. Supplies of food, drink and clothing had been shipped over from the one remaining freighter, but it wouldn't really be enough. The aliens were likely to start starving before they reached Primus Omega, unless supplies could be more evenly distributed. But he didn't have the Marines to handle the task. Simply leaving a platoon on each ship in full armour was dangerous enough.
It was unlikely that the Mice would give anyone any problems. They seemed completely submissive, merely going through life without fighting or even arguing. But the Dragons would start to riot, perhaps, while two of their other slave races were almost as aggressive when they felt threatened. Cramming them all into a handful of freighters was bound to spark off trouble.
But there is no choice, he reminded himself, again. We have to take them away from here.
“Captain,” Susan snapped, catching his arm. “Look at them!”
Glen bit down the response that came to mind and followed her pointing finger. A line of Dragons, each looking as ... beaten as the Dragons on Putrajaya, shuffling into their makeshift compartment. At the back, half-hidden in the shadows, were portable toilets and food supplies. There were no showers, nothing they could use to clean themselves. It was going to be an unpleasant journey,
“I see them,” he said. He knew he sounded callous and he didn't care. “Would you rather we left them here to die?”
He silently cursed the Governor under his breath. What had she been thinking when she’d issued that ultimatum. Even if a single alien homeworld was the logical solution – and Glen had to admit that she had a point, as it had been one of his own suggestions – the way she’d gone about it was counter-productive in the extreme. The colonials were stalling on providing transport, which meant that local governments were considering alternate – and final – solutions. So far, there had been no reports of slaughter, but it was only a matter of time.
Angrily, he turned and strode towards the airlock where his shuttle was docked. Susan called after him, then fell silent. She'd volunteered to stay on the freighters with the aliens, which Glen had to admit was admirable. The Governor had certainly never travelled to an alien refugee camp. Glen would have been surprised if she had ever met an alien. There were plenty of alien diplomats on Earth, on the other hand. But they’d wanted help from humanity and had adjusted their message accordingly. What might they have told Governor Wu?
He stepped through the airlock and sat down in the pilot’s chair, then accessed his implants and scanned the list of messages. One of them was from the senior freighter com
mander, demanding to know what sort of compensation was going to be offered for the damage done to the freighters. He had good reason to protest, Glen knew; the freighters were designed to be easily refitted, but actually doing it required a work crew. And whatever mess the aliens left in their wake would have to be cleaned up, somehow.
Something else Sandy could have handled, he thought. And she might have been more diplomatic with the planetary government.
The thought made him scowl. They’d been given an ultimatum of their own; take the aliens within the week or the government would take steps to deal with the problem. There had been no consequences specified, but Glen knew that there was only one practical solution; genocide. And, ever since Independence had been called away on to help guard another potential target, they’d had even less clout with the planetary government. The handful of ships assigned to Jorlem had not been willing to loan their shuttles, let alone do anything else to help ...
Sighing, he activated the shuttle’s drives and disengaged from the freighter. For a moment, lost in the immensity of space, he could forget who and what he was ... and then reality asserted itself. Muttering curses under his breath, he steered the shuttle back towards Dauntless and docked in the shuttlebay, then strode back to his cabin and lay down on the bed. It always felt lonely to be the commander, he reminded himself, but it was even worse when the XO was missing. At least he knew Sandy was alive and with the raiders ...
“Record,” he ordered. “We will pay a sensible amount of compensation to the freighter commanders, once bills are submitted. This will come out of the starship’s funds.”
The beancounters would probably pitch a fit, he told himself, as he turned down the lights and closed his eyes. Starships might have emergency funds assigned to them, but they were only meant for the starship and her crew, not for compensating freighter crews. But it would ensure that the freighters would actually be paid, which would make them more enthusiastic about the whole operation. No doubt they’d expected to have to wrestle compensation out of the Governor’s discretionary funds. Glen suspected that would have taken years of legal wrangling before anything was provided ...
He was woken by a bleep from his terminal. “Report,” he ordered, sitting upright. “What happened?”
“The freighters are fully loaded, Captain,” Cooke reported. He’d taken over some of Sandy’s duties, although Glen hadn't been able to trust him with everything. Still, it would look good on the young man’s service record. With promotion as stalled as it was, anything that would give him an advantage would be handy. “I'm afraid that there were additional complaints from the crews ...”
“Send me copies,” Glen said. Funny; his chronometer said he’d slept for nearly five hours, yet he didn't feel rested. There were sleeping pills he could take, if necessary, but they tended to have unpleasant side effects if he woke up too early. And besides, without his XO, he knew better than to take the risk. “Are we ready to depart?”
“We can leave within the hour,” Cooke assured him. “Unfortunately, Helena says that the storm has not abated. We may have to take a longer detour to avoid the fringes.”
Helena now, is it? Glen thought, dryly. He had to admit that Helena was pretty, but as long as she was junior to Cooke, there was no way they could enjoy a relationship. But such relationships did happen when starships were on long deployments and they invariably caused serious problems when they came to light. Which they did, because starship crews were tightly-knit and a relationship would be noticed. And then the real trouble would start.
Or maybe they were just being friendly. “That’s irritating,” he said, out loud. Sandy and he would discuss the potential relationship later, if there was a later. “Never mind, though. Tell her to chart us a course that keeps us safely away from the storm.”
He stood and started to undress, quickly. “Pass the word,” he added. “We’re going to leave the system in one hour. See if the militiamen wish to accompany us.”
Once he'd closed the channel, he finished undressing and stepped into the shower. Cold water woke him up; he dried himself quickly, then pulled on a fresh uniform. The old one would have to be dumped in the laundry basket for cleaning. Scooping it up, he checked his appearance in the mirror and then strode out of his cabin and up towards the bridge. Around him, his ship was coming to life.
“Captain on the bridge,” Cooke said. Glen returned his salute, then took the command chair and sat down. “The militiamen declined to escort us to Primus Omega.”
“Understood,” Glen said. “Inform the freighters that we will be departing” – he glanced at the chronometer – “in twenty minutes.”
He checked the updates from the FTL communications network and noted that they'd received messages from both Bottleneck and Fairfax. The former bemoaned the lack of escort vessels suitable for anti-raider operations, the latter told of angry riots in the capital. Glen silently cursed the Governor under his breath. How could she have made such a provocative demand without realising the possible consequences?
“All systems report ready, Captain,” Cooke said, breaking into Glen’s thoughts. “Dauntless is ready to depart.”
“Signal farewell to the planet, then open a portal and take us out of here,” Glen ordered. “And make sure the freighters stay close. We don’t want to lose them, not now.”
One of his favourite writers had once compared hyperspace travel to wet-navy sailing, during the days of sailing ships. The only real difference, apart from the technology, was that no one had ever found a way to use the currents in hyperspace to speed up travel times from one place to another. Starships that were swept up in currents tended to be either destroyed or lost forever, although there were always stories of colony worlds founded hundreds of thousands of light years from Earth. But there were always stories. Glen knew that few people truly believed them.
Maybe it was his imagination, but hyperspace – even the computer-generated representation – looked hostile. The storm was still quite some distance away, but it was throwing out distortions and flickers of energy that could be seen for hundreds of light years. Glen watched it for a long moment, then checked the course Helena had devised. Unless the storm altered course radically, he decided, they should avoid the worst of it by a pretty safe margin.
“Hyperspace transit completed,” Helena said. “Course laid in.”
“The freighters have completed transit,” Cooke added, a moment later. “Captain?”
“Take us out,” Glen ordered. “And keep a close eye on that damn storm.”
He settled back into his command chair as the small convoy proceeded through hyperspace, reading the latest updates from the Colonial Militia. The Governor had demanded full access to the militia’s operations, while the colonials had rebelled by pointing out that there was clearly a leak in the Governor’s staff and it really should be closed before they shared any data with the Governor. Glen suspected that the colonials had a point; the Governor herself might be above suspicion, but her staff had never been vetted by anyone else. But surely Federation Security would have vetted them.
Or maybe not, Glen thought, sourly. Vetting was a sore subject at the best of times; many administrative staff, particularly the ones who had been in politics for years, had contacts that sounded alarms when security officers attempted to vet them. Their political superiors trusted them implicitly and tended to be annoyed whenever they were questioned. And, to be fair, most of them were completely loyal to their patrons. It just didn't make them loyal to the Federation as a whole.
The only other update was a note from Bottleneck confirming that the Alien Refugee Support Fund was largely backed by Knight Corporation. Glen made a mental note to ask Theodore just what he was thinking; the Fund didn't seem to be achieving anything of value, apart from keeping the alien refugees in an endless limbo. Somehow, Glen found it hard to believe that was the real objective. If nothing else, it would be a persistent drain on the corporation’s resources.
A me
ssage came in; Cynthia was asking for a briefing. Glen told her to meet him in his office, then stood up and nodded to Cooke.
“You have the bridge,” he said. “Alert me if the storm worsens or if we have to alter course.”
Cynthia joined him in his office a moment later. “I have completed my analysis of the tactical data from Xenophon,” she said. She'd taken the raw data, while Glen had glanced at the summaries. “Very little actually makes sense.”
Glen took the datapad and skimmed through it. Fact; the attackers had used Colonial Militia codes to take out a battlestation that would otherwise have savaged their squadron. Fact; the attackers had bombarded an alien refugee camp from orbit. Fact; the attackers had claimed to be part of the Colonial Liberation Front. Fact; no one had heard of the Colonial Liberation Front until Xenophon had been attacked. Fact; the ships that had carried out the attack included several that had been sold to the Colonial Militia. Conclusion; the attackers belonged to the Colonial Militia and the Colonial Liberation Front was a false flag.
But ... Fact; the raiders had slaughtered vast numbers of humans as well as aliens. Fact; the raiders hadn't hesitated to engage the Colonial Militia, as long as the firepower advantage had been decisively in their favour. Fact; the starships they used were maintained surprisingly well. Fact; the first targets they’d chosen had been on the Governor’s list of alien camps to assist. Fact; the raiders clearly had access to vast sources of money. Conclusion; the attackers were actually mercenaries, working for someone in the Federation.
Knight's Move Page 33