by Joshua Guess
Penn sat on the ground and scooted himself close to Dex, resting his elbows on his knees. “Kid, the world isn’t on your shoulders. We’re all grown-ups here. We can stand up for ourselves. It’s not on you to save us. Me, I think you’ve done more than your share already. You get some rest, and I’ll sit here and keep an eye out for you. If anything happens, I’ll wake you up.”
A grateful part of Dex wanted to hug the older man, but the larger and more insistent chunk of his mind—the exhausted part—only let him give a thankful nod before a wave of fatigue overcame him.
The last thought Dex had before he gave in and let sleep consume him was that he needed to protect these people. Not because they were close to him—though their shared circumstance did form a bond of sorts—and not because they were simply innocent people.
Dex needed to keep them safe because the price he had already paid to do so meant he couldn’t stop now. When he woke, the horror of taking a dozen lives in a single night would wash over him again. If the others in camp died, those killings would have been for nothing.
He thought living with that cost was possible. Living with paying it and still failing, not so much.
18
With the data taken from the Red Hand base, the entire fleet was laid bare. Detailed visuals, troves of information on each ship’s capabilities, and most importantly the scheduled comings and goings of each. They’d hit the base at just the right time; only three Red Hand vessels were free of Iona’s digital assault. In the week following, they took down two of the three remaining ships. The last, a freighter with heavier hull plating than standard for its class and a badly hidden set of aftermarket weapons pods, was right where the data haul said it would be.
Well, not exactly, Crash thought as the Seraphim prowled silently through the space ahead of its exit from the Cascade. Though there was no information to be found on what ship Drummer was on at any given time—his presence was never recorded in any log for any reason—it wasn’t hard to figure out his favorite hiding places once the navigational data from every ship that had docked at the base was in their hands.
Crash was the one to suggest looking for deviations. Find a pattern in how each ship in the fleet moved over time, then look for where it broke from it. In that manner they accumulated a list of likely systems where a given ship Drummer was hiding on might have visited. A less paranoid man would have made sure his vessel went about its business as normal, but Crash could hardly blame him for the lapse in judgment. After all, the idea that anyone would be able to sift that much data after successfully evacuating the Red Hand stronghold bordered on the ludicrous.
Unless you were in a refitted beast of a ship with a super-intelligent artificial intelligence bent on hunting you down. But honestly, who plans for that?
A truly staggering number of trips through the Cascade brought them to the fourteenth—and far from last—location on the list. Investigating those spaces required multiple stops in transition systems, refuels, and a dogged determination to keep going on virtually no sleep for days on end.
“We’ve got them,” Spencer said.
Crash, seated in the command chair, turned her head. “You’re sure?”
Spencer nodded emphatically. “We caught them with their pants down. Ship is running under conventional drive systems right now, and the profile matches the Jack Jones perfectly. We’ll get active pings back in...two minutes. Wow. They’re not that far away at all.”
Crash tapped a fingernail against the control panel on the chair. “Call down to the mess and let the others know we’re going to engage. Do you think they know we’re here?”
Spencer snorted a laugh. “I doubt this guy goes anywhere without every passive sensor cranked up to maximum sensitivity. Pretty sure they’ve noticed the tear in the fabric of the universe we just popped out of. Cascade points aren’t subtle.”
“Right,” Crash said. She’d debated whether or not they should gate in at a distance as they usually did to maintain stealth but had decided against it. Better to show up closer to—or inside—the system in case the bad guys were ready for them and decided to run. Easier to cut them off without a long chase.
Iona was filling in for Krieger at navigation, and she raised a finger without looking up from the monitor. “Hey, Commander? Just noticing something strange here. This system doesn’t have a gate.”
“Huh,” Crash said. “That’s—oh. Oh, shit. Iona, get us in firing range now. Warp us if you can. Spencer, I want active scans. Tell me if you see a power surge. These sneaky fuckers have gate pylons hidden on the pile of junk.”
As it turned out, no message needed to be sent to the rest of the crew. Everyone knew something was up when the lights switched to low-power mode as they did any time they needed to bend space. The warning chime filled the PA system and the low hum of the drive spinning up resonated through the deck plates. Krieger would have spent at least a minute running the numbers through the computer and checking them three times, but Iona didn’t need a safety net.
On screen, the stars vanished for a few seconds. They reappeared in a different configuration, and the bulky form of the Jack Jones loomed in the near distance. The image was magnified enough that Crash could see the hidden ports opening and the gate pylons emerging from them.
“Shit,” Crash breathed. Her eyes flicked toward the status panel and sure enough, all weapons systems were armed and ready as they should have been. “Iona. Go wild.”
No one had to be told what she meant. The entire crew was perfectly aware that the sim had far more than enough processing power to run every ship system twice over. Crash could have taken the shot, but her reflexes were human. In the time it would have taken Crash to open the weapons control panel on her console, Iona adjusted the attitude of the ship with an efficient set of thruster blasts and aimed the rail gun with pinpoint accuracy.
Crash knew so because in between breaths, one of the pylons on the Jack Jones developed a serious case of ‘has a giant hole blown through it.’ Metallic debris sparkled in an expanding cloud of space glitter, joined by several others as Iona deftly pointed the ship at the enemy vessel to line up the rail gun and fired three times in quick succession. Disabling shots, all, but Crash knew there would be casualties nonetheless.
The Jack Jones began to list in space, a slow and uncontrolled roll as a lucky, or more likely very good, shot damaged even her attitude control system. No thrusters fired to keep her steady. Crash was deciding what her next order should be when the lift opened and a cluster of crew members stepped out, led by Grant. He was holding a sandwich and chewing through a bite.
“What happened?” he asked through a mouthful of food.
Crash smiled.
*
About five minutes after disabling the ship, Crash sent a message. Its contents were built around legal jargon they had to use as a free company hired to hunt down the pirates, but stripped of that language it boiled down to a simple binary choice.
Surrender and give us Drummer or we destroy your ship around you.
As threats went, this one wasn’t as bad as it sounded. Any spacer worth their salt would have long since jumped into an emergency vac suit, so sudden decompression wasn’t the death sentence it might have been. The real danger would come from the damage itself. Flying shrapnel, bulkheads shearing, that sort of thing. Given the option to live and face the consequences of being pirates or the certainty of dying cold and alone in space, it took the crew of the enemy ship less than sixty seconds to respond.
Twenty minutes after that, a video link went live between the ships.
The captain of the Jack Jones was haggard, a line of blood streaking his bearded face from inside the open visor of his suit. Seated next to him was a man, presumably Drummer, with hands locked together with heavy zip cuffs. “This is him. What do you want us to do?” The captain’s voice was thick and rich. Crash thought he was wasted as a pirate. This man should be narrating documentaries or performing audio dramas.
/> Grant had taken the first officer’s chair, deciding since she was in command when the moment came, she deserved to see it through. He gave the slightest of nods to her barely raised eyebrow.
A confirmation popped up on the monitor, telling Crash Iona had successfully piggybacked the link. Crash cleared her throat. “We’ve just cracked your ship’s systems. You’re welcome to do any repairs you like, but your drives are going to be permanently disabled. We’re going to send over a pod with three of our assault team on it. Give them Drummer. If he is who you say he is, we’ll make sure a recovery team gets here in the next twelve hours to take your people into custody. If this is a trick, I’m going to be very angry. We’ve been chasing this jackass across half the Alliance. I really don’t want to have to track all of you down to whatever detention center you end up in and look for him all over again.”
The captain’s eye twitched. “Lady, this is Drummer. Trust me, I’ve had to change schedules a hundred times to ferry his ass around. You got us. Last thing I’m gonna do is risk worse to keep him safe. At this point I’d almost rather go to prison.”
Crash glanced at the helm station. “Iona?”
“I can’t find an image of the man seated in that chair in the crew logs,” Iona said. “They’re as thorough as any other cargo vessel, but he’s not in them. It’s not a guarantee, but it does support what the captain is telling you.”
Drummer—and Crash was fairly sure it was Drummer—didn’t look like much. His height was difficult to estimate while sitting, but he wasn’t a large man. His narrow, pale face and wide-set eyes reminded her of a quartermaster she’d disliked from her navy days. Drummer had the same pinched, tense body language as that bean counter. He remained silent during the entire exchange, though his expression grew more cloudy with controlled fury as the dialogue continued. This more than anything convinced her of his identity. A stooge wouldn’t betray so many unconscious signs of anger when two people stood by badmouthing the person they were pretending to be.
“Fine, then,” Crash said. “Send him over when our people get there. I’m going to want copies of everything on your ship’s storage drives. We’ll know if you don’t send it all. Seraphim out.”
The connection dropped. Crash blew out a long breath. “Well. Shit. Kinda can’t believe we did it. And without getting shot. I’m pretty thrilled about that part.”
“Do I have to be the one to say it?” Iona muttered a few seconds later during a long, awkward silence.
Crash shook her head. “No, you don’t. We all knew this was the easy part. We’re in a military ship and no matter how many modifications the Red Hand put on their fleet, they were always outmatched. Going after the Smith will be a different beast. They’ll pose a real threat.”
“Not just them,” Grant said. “No one here thinks they’re alone. You don’t just outfit a single vessel with next generation technology. We’re probably going to fight an uphill battle from here on out. If the Smith and whoever is backing her don’t have at least our level of weaponry and armor, I’ll hand over my share of the Seraphim free and clear.”
“No bet,” Batta said from the crowd still milling around the lift. “Whoever is behind the abductions and handing out bleeding edge tech like it’s candy, they’ll be well defended. We might consider asking Sharp for resources before taking the next leap.”
Grant nodded. “I will, no worries there. After we interrogate Drummer and sift the data from the Jones, I’ll set up another meet with Sharp. Seems unlikely he’ll be able to free up any other ships to help us, all things considered. We’re supposed to be able to handle our own problems. That’s the whole point of the Ghost Fleet. If he tasks other fleet ships to give us a hand, it risks them finding out that one of our own was taken. The brass won’t like hearing that, especially since Sharp didn’t tell them.”
Batta raised an eyebrow. “Basically you’re saying that our choice is to go on yet another suicide mission or give up on finding Dex. Lovely.”
Grant nodded, briefly meeting Crash’s eyes. “Yep. We’re going after him, full stop.”
Crash, still high off their victory, gave the entire bridge a predatory grin. “You’re goddamn right we are. And when we’re done with them, even if we die, they’re gonna know for sure they were in a fight.”
It said something about the mindset and recent experiences of the crew that they laughed at this statement even as they understood it to be the gospel truth. They would go down in a literal blaze of glory, weapons firing, before ever giving up on one of their own.
Crash knew it. Everyone else did, too. And that was as it should be.
19
Dex had assumed he’d sleep through the excitement. This belief was founded on his own experience and a reasonable expectation that dozens of men armed to the teeth didn’t seem like a peacekeeping force happy to watch from a distance after their friends were brutally killed.
The latter was correct. An attack did come. But the former was wildly off base. Rather than the expected half a day or more of stupor after extended use of his artificial glands, he woke up in four hours feeling rested, sore but not aching, and ravenously hungry.
Penn was still there, sitting a few feet away idly humming to himself. He saw Dex sit up and grimaced. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
Dex shook his head. “No, my stomach did. I’m starving.”
Penn smiled. “Well, that I can help with. Couple people brought you some spoils of war. Turns out those mercenaries were carrying way better food packs than the ones we get.” He sorted through a small pile of containers next to him, selected one, and handed it over. “This one is steak and mashed potatoes. Figure that has to be better than protein cubes.”
Dex reached out for it, but drew back. His hand shook badly enough that he wasn’t sure he could even hold on to the pack. “Uh, would you mind opening that for me? Guess I’m not all the way back to normal just yet.”
Penn nodded, frowning faintly. “That a side effect?”
“Not usually,” Dex said. “But I pushed myself pretty hard.” He flexed the hand and wrist, carefully tensed the muscles in his forearm and then upward toward the shoulder. The shakiness lessened slightly, but there were still tremors when he reached out for the pack again. “Well, shit.”
“Let me give you a hand, then,” Penn said kindly.
Dex fidgeted uncomfortably. “Are you...offering to feed me?”
“Sure,” Penn said. “Look, you need food. Your fingers aren’t listening to you right now. And it’s not like this is the first time in my life I’ve ever had to do it. When I was young, I took care of my grandmother. Then I got married, had kids. Fed them too. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, and I don’t mind.”
“Kids,” Dex said softly. “Damn. I didn’t even think about stuff like that. I wonder how many people here are away from their children?”
Penn produced one of the disposable utensils that came with the meal packs and loaded it up with a cube of steak. As he held it out for Dex, he smiled wistfully. “More than you’d think. People don’t like to talk about it, you know. Reminds them of what they’ve left behind. Don’t beat yourself up too hard, son. Getting snatched and brought here isn’t a picnic. Doesn’t make you a bad person to think of yourself first. Just human.”
Dex chewed on that as he chewed the food—though barely, as the void in his belly was a demanding god—and wondered how many stories of the people here would end that way. Would their families ever learn what happened to them, or would the mystery of their disappearance remain? Unanswered questions and heartbreak for the rest of their lives, slowly fading but never gone.
It made him angry all over again. Dex quickly clamped down on the reaction to prevent his physiology from reacting in turn.
Between bites, he probed. “Do you mind talking about it? I’ve never had family. Not until I took up with my crew, anyway.”
Penn’s face came back to reality. If the easy manner was a bit more cloudy, well, that was to be ex
pected. “Nah, I don’t mind. It hurts knowing I might not see them again, but my kids keep me going.”
Dex swallowed another bite. “How many do you have? Where did you live?”
“We’re from Proxima colony,” Penn said, naming one of the oldest colonies in the Alliance, and the nearest to Earth outside of the Solar system. “I have two girls and three boys. The oldest...”
Dex let the gentle conversation wash over him as Penn slowly helped him fill the chasm in his gut. He imagined what it must be like to live that way, free as he had only been as an adult. It was a pleasant thought, but also one that stoked the fire inside. He hadn’t experienced these things himself, but Penn’s trip down memory lane served to etch the truth of what these people had lost deeper and deeper into his mind.
*
Dex ate three meal packs, but by the end of the second his limbs were back to normal. Penn helped him to his feet and they walked together toward the perimeter of the camp. A buzz of excitement filled the place, which was new. The general air was normally one of casual despair.
The dynamic had changed dramatically in the hours he’d been asleep. The worst cases, those still suffering from the effects of the pathogen, were no longer spread along the border of the camp. Instead they clustered in the center while the healthier inhabitants stood guard on the outer edges. Others worked, hauling rocks to shore up the sad little wall. It wouldn’t stop an attacker, but hopping over it might slow them down enough for someone to get in a lucky shot.
More than anything, Dex was taken aback by the sense of purpose now obvious everywhere he looked. People wore the purloined armor he brought them and carried the stolen weapons as if they meant to use them. The camp being what it was, seeing from one side to the other was as easy as glancing in the gaps between standing bodies.