March gestured, and November walked past the table and to the large screen on the far wall. He plugged a thumb drive into the display, and it lit up, displaying a huge cylindrical starship that had been painted the color of blood.
“That’s a colony ship, isn’t it?” said Alan, leaning forward. “One of the old ones from the Fifth Empire. Sixteen kilometers long.”
“It can’t be,” said Siegfried. “The lines are wrong. The colony ships of the Fifth Empire were sleeker than this. That ship looks like…”
“Like a colony ship that was modified heavily,” said November. “You are correct, Lieutenant Alan. Burnchain Station began as a colony ship of the Fifth Empire. In point of fact, it has been in operation since the chaos surrounding the fall of that Empire.” He paused. “You should be aware that what I am about to tell you is exceedingly dangerous information. The Masters of Burnchain Station prefer to operate in the shadows, and they don’t like anyone knowing about them. I suggest you keep this information to yourselves.”
No one said anything.
“Very good,” said November. “The Masters of Burnchain Station have been in business since before the fall of the Fifth Terran Empire and the founding of Calaskar. No one knows for certain, but the evidence suggests that the Masters originated as a slave trading organization that took advantage of the chaos during the Empire’s final civil war. As you can imagine, they quickly made themselves odious to the local authorities, so they seized a colony ship and used it to escape. In the centuries since, they have modified the colony ship into a heavily fortified mobile space station, and they have expanded into several new areas of business.”
“Which areas?” said Northridge, her dislike of March forgotten as she gazed at the screen. The crimson starship did make an intimidating sight.
“Anything,” said November. “Absolutely anything that will turn a profit. Weapons, both conventional armaments and weapons of mass destruction. Human trafficking and outright slave trading. Drugs of every description. The Masters frequently employ pirate gangs and slavers to carry out their will, and they have the kind of wealth that can buy and sell planetary governments. They have thousands of officials across human space on their payroll, and they can easily quash any investigation aimed at their business activities. To the best of our knowledge, there are between thirteen and nineteen Masters that vote upon the station’s activities, and each Master is fantastically rich. Their identities, I fear, remain a secret, but each Master is likely a person of influence on his or her homeworld – an industrialist, a large landowner, a prominent entertainer, and so forth.”
“Do…they have a great deal of influence on Calaskar?” said Northridge.
“As it happens, no,” said November. “The Calaskaran internal security services are efficient enough that the Masters haven’t gained a foothold on any of the Kingdom’s core worlds. Corrupt Calaskaran officials tend to meet a bloody end, which acts as an excellent deterrent.” March himself had arranged for the downfall of several corrupt officials, and he knew that Adelaide had done the same on Calaskar itself. “Of all the known human governments, the two the Masters have the least influence over are the Kingdom of Calaskar and the Machinists. The Kingdom, for the reasons I have enumerated above. As for the Machinists, the Final Consciousness simply does not tolerate internal dissent of any kind, and for that matter, it is difficult to suborn a member of a hive mind under any circumstances. That said, the Final Consciousness is hardly hostile to the Masters, and the Masters have made themselves useful to the Machinists. The Masters of Burnchain Station have discovered the Final Consciousness to be a well-paying customer, and the Machinists have found the Masters to be useful subcontractors.”
“The Mercatorian government would be above such influence,” said Siegfried with a sniff.
“The Central Bank of Mercator,” said November, “handles several accounts for the Masters of Burnchain Station.” Siegfried stared at him. “The bankers of Mercator will work with nearly anyone. They will make a big show from time to time about how they will not work with the Machinists, or with the occasional slave trader or pirate, but they have no problem handling the money of the employers of half of the pirates and slave traders in human space.”
Siegfried stared at him. March could not tell if she was appalled or if she wanted to argue.
“Then there will almost certainly be Machinist emissaries at the auction?” said Alan.
“Beyond all doubt,” said March, thinking of the Final Consciousness’s connection with the ancient technology of the Great Elder Ones. The Machinists would not turn away useful technology of the Fifth Terran Empire. “And if they get the weapon, they will deploy it against Calaskar.”
“Which is why we are going to stop them,” said Alan.
“Yes,” said March.
If they could.
“And just how are we going to do that?” said Northridge. “I doubt this little blockade runner has the kind of firepower we need to blow up Burnchain Station.”
“It doesn’t,” said March. “We’re going to attend the auction, see who wins the fungi, and steal it from them.”
“How?” repeated Northridge. “For one thing, I don’t think the Masters would let a Calaskaran ship within a million kilometers of their station.”
“They wouldn’t,” said November. “Which is why we shall change the ship’s registration and ID signal to the Lion’s Mane, a mercenary vessel registered to one of the Kezredite worlds, specifically the sultanate of Al-Khazmar. Our credentials state that we are mercenary agents of the sultan come to purchase the biomorphic fungi on his behalf, with authorization to spend up to three billion credits.”
Siegfried frowned. “Didn’t the sultan use nerve gas on an uprising of his own people last year?”
“More specifically, thirty million of them,” said November. “It is entirely plausible that the sultan would wish to purchase such a deadly weapon. Furthermore, we have the advantage that all the sultan’s thirty-seven sons actively hate their father and are planning his downfall, so no one in the government of Al-Khazmar currently has attention to spare for the Masters’ auction. Our ruse shall be successful.”
“Let’s hope so,” muttered Northridge.
“And once we see who has the fungi?” said Siegfried. “What then?”
“We decide what to do,” said March. “We attempt to steal it ourselves, destroy the vessel that will carry it, or notify the Navy and let them destroy the vessel.”
“We don’t have a plan?” said Northridge, her outrage plain.
“Pardon, Dr. Northridge, but we do have a plan,” said November. “It is impossible to make predictions without accurate data. We shall simply have to proceed as we see fit once we arrive at Burnchain Station.”
“This is idiocy,” said Northridge. “This…”
“This is what you agreed to do,” said March. “So be quiet and listen.” Northridge blinked at him as if he had slapped her. Between Northridge and Siegfried, March wondered if academics ever heard the word “no” in their lives. “Mr. November and I have dealt with Burnchain Station before. You have not. If you want to stay alive, you’ll listen to us.”
“Once we reach the station, let myself and Captain March do the talking,” said November. “Under no circumstances reveal your real names and occupations to anyone. We shall simply say you are the scientific advisors, which is true enough. Given the generally low social status of women on Kezredite worlds, it will not seem unusual for us not to introduce you.”
“Have either of you ever fired a gun?” said March.
Siegfried shook her head. “I tried when the Howard Carter was attacked, but…well, you know how that ended.”
“Target practice for my Ministry of Defense certifications,” said Northridge.
“Then neither of you have ever killed anyone,” said March.
Northridge sneered. “And you have?”
“Yes. Quite often.” He met her green eyes, and she had to look a
way first. “I’m afraid you both have had somewhat sheltered lives. That’s not a judgment, that’s just a fact. Burnchain Station is a hard place, and you should prepare yourselves. You’re going to see things that will shock you.” He sighed. “You might see levels of cruelty that you didn’t think possible.”
“Why are you telling us this, Captain March?” said Siegfried.
“So you can prepare yourself for what we’re about to do,” said March. “This isn’t a university. This isn’t the Ministry of Defense. Burnchain Station is the kind of place where the strong prey on the weak with impunity, and you need to be ready for that.”
Northridge glared at him. “You seem to think I am a child, Captain March, or a fool. Well, I am neither. I intend to fulfill my duty.”
“Remember that,” said March.
###
The next morning March guided the Tiger through another hyperjump and then went to the gym to exercise. His other passengers were all sleeping. He suspected that Siegfried would want to use the elliptical machine when she woke up, and Alan looked like the sort who spent a lot of time weightlifting, but for now, March had the gym to himself.
After he had finished his workout, he cleaned off in his cabin’s sanitizer booth, dressed in a fresh jumpsuit and his leather coat, and went to the galley for breakfast. It was deserted, and he made himself a fresh pot of coffee, a dish of powdered eggs and bacon-flavored protein, and sat down to eat.
March had just taken a sip of his coffee when the door opened, and Melissa Northridge took one step into the galley.
She froze when she saw him.
Prudence had won over fashion, and she had changed from her formal clothes to a gray jumpsuit and heavy boots, her blond hair tied back in a tail. She was pretty enough that she looked nice even in a ship crewer’s gray jumpsuit. Northridge hesitated halfway into the galley, looking everywhere except at him.
March ignored her and started eating.
“I’m going to get some breakfast,” she announced. “Unless you have a problem with that.”
March gestured with his coffee cup in the direction of the counter. “Help yourself.”
She hesitated, and then stalked to the counter and began fixing herself breakfast, her motions stiff and sharp and angry. It was clear that she was spoiling for a fight. March supposed that was for the best. If she wanted to argue with him, that meant she wasn’t terrified of him. Which meant she was more likely to listen to him in a crisis.
Granted, maybe fear would have been preferable if it would shut her up, but March suspected there was no emotional state where Melissa Northridge would stop talking.
He kept eating as she made a protein shake, and then at last, she turned and stalked to the door.
“I’m going to eat in my cabin,” announced Northridge.
“Okay,” said March.
She hesitated and glared back at him. “Don’t you want to know?”
“Know what?” said March, keeping his voice bland.
“Aren’t you going to ask me?” said Northridge.
He decided to be insulting. “I’m already seeing a woman. Thank you, but no.”
Northridge’s jaw fell open, and a flush went over her face. She snarled, stalked back to the table, and sat across from him. March sighed and set down his fork. The prospect of a peaceful breakfast seemed to have evaporated.
“That’s not what I meant,” she ground out.
“I know what you meant,” said March. “And I already know what happened.”
“Do you, now?” said Northridge.
“An Iron Hand murdered someone you care about,” said March. “Probably right in front you. That’s what the Iron Hands do, and they’re good at it. So, when you saw this,” he flexed his left hand, “it all came screaming back.” She stared at him. “Did I miss anything?”
Northridge kept staring at him, and he expected her to fly into a rage or to stalk from the galley. Instead, a spasm went over her expression, and she looked like she wanted to start crying.
“My father,” she whispered.
March nodded and waited.
“He was the chief administrator at an asteroid mine in the Manzikert system,” said Northridge. “The Machinists tried to suborn him, to use the asteroid as a platform for an attack on Manzikert Station. My father refused. They sent a team of Iron Hands to kill him. But his security detail was ready for it. There was a firefight…” She stared at the wall. “One of the Iron Hands got close enough to strike him. He punched…and my father’s head was between the Iron Hand’s fist and the wall.”
March nodded again. That would have made the unfortunate man’s head explode like a melon. “How old were you?”
“Eight,” said Northridge. “I…the blood spattered everywhere. I will never, ever forget that.”
“Nor should you,” said March.
“My mother never got over it,” said Northridge. Her voice trailed off. “I…”
March waited. He could see the course of her life clear enough. With her father dead and her mother crippled by grief, Melissa Northridge had likely done as she pleased, which explained her truculence and the fact that she was willing to have an affair with a married Marine officer.
“So that’s why I work with the Ministry of Defense,” said Northridge, some of her anger returning. “Maybe someday I’ll have a chance to pay them back.”
“I understand,” said March.
“I very much doubt that,” said Northridge.
“My mother,” said March, “starved to death in a Machinist labor camp.”
Northridge flinched, and March took a drink of coffee.
“And then they took me,” said March, “tested me for compatibility with the hive mind, and made me into an Iron Hand. They didn’t leave me with much choice in the matter. What I wanted was my next meal and someplace warm to sleep. What I got was something else. Years and years of it.” He took a bite of eggs and swallowed. “I have as much reason to hate the Final Consciousness as you do.”
He watched Northridge to see how she would react. Would she fly into a rage? Dismiss him with sneering contempt? Accuse him of lying?
“How,” she said in a small voice, “how did you leave?”
“Martel’s World,” said March.
The pretty green eyes widened. “Oh.”
“I was wounded there and should have died,” said March. “Instead, one of the slum families nursed me back to health. Like the Good Samaritan in the Bible. And after I left, and the Navy broke the back of the Machinist fleet, the Final Consciousness bombed the planet. No reason for it. They destroyed the planet rather than let the Kingdom take control of it.”
Some of his anger must have leaked into his tone or his expression because Northridge’s voice was softer. “I…I remember hearing about that. I was still in school. I suppose the Machinists did it to deny Calaskar the planet.”
March shook his head. “No. It was spite, pure and simple. Martel’s World was impoverished and didn’t have anything even remotely resembling a modern industrial base. It would have been a massive economic drain on Calaskar. It would have made more strategic sense for the Final Consciousness to let the Kingdom take control of the planet and struggle over what to do with it. But instead, the Machinists burned it. Billions of people dead in an instant. All for petty revenge.”
Northridge said nothing, the uncertainty plain on her face.
“After that, I was done with the Final Consciousness,” said March. “It was hard to break away. The voice of the hive mind inside my head was like…imagine the strongest social pressure you’ve ever known, and then multiplied times a thousand. That’s what being part of the Machinist hive mind is like. But I left. I joined the Kingdom of Calaskar, and they removed my hive implant and as much of the Machinist cybernetics as they could without killing me. Been flying the Tiger ever since.”
Northridge took a deep breath. “You’re not really a privateer, are you?”
“Yes, I am,” said March.
“I can show you my official license and letters of marque if you like.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Northridge. “You’re…some kind of government black ops agent.”
Northridge might not have possessed full mastery of her emotions, March reflected, but she wasn’t stupid. She probably didn’t know what the Silent Order was, but she had worked it out nonetheless.
“I’m a privateer,” he said. “Sometimes I do jobs for the Calaskaran government, that’s all.”
“Keep your secrets,” said Northridge with a snort. “I’ve worked for the Ministry of Defense long enough to know how that works.” She let out a long breath. “Maybe I misjudged you. Or judged you too quickly. If so, I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right,” said March. “I prefer to be misjudged.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Because it’s easier to surprise your enemies that way,” said March.
Northridge blinked, and let out a quiet laugh. “If you like.”
“You asked me a blunt question,” said March, “now I have to do the same thing.” Northridge nodded. “Why are you having an affair with Lieutenant Alan? He’s married.”
It was a little gratifying to see the shock on her face. Her jaw fell open, and the green eyes went wide. Color flooded into her cheeks. Either she was a superb actress, or she was a terrible liar.
“I…I…I don’t,” started Northridge. “That is not…that is a slanderous, slanderous accusation…even if it were true, which it is not, it is none of your business, it…it…it…”
March stared at her.
Northridge’s efforts at a defense came to a stammering halt.
“How did you know?” she said in a quiet voice.
“It was obvious,” said March. “You had one hotel room. When you packed up in a hurry, both you and Alan had all your toiletries in the same room. Also, I saw you slip into his cabin the first night from Exarch Station.”
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