“Jesus,” said Northridge. “That is obvious, isn’t it?” Her expression of discomfort tightened. “Does Siegfried know? The pompous old bitch already thinks she’s better than me, and…”
“I haven’t told her,” said March. “I don’t think she knows. Unless you happen to go to Alan’s cabin while she’s watching.”
“Oh, good,” said Northridge. She hesitated. “You’re not going to tell her?”
“No,” said March. “Having an affair is a terrible idea, though.”
She glared at him, recovering some of her defiance. “It’s none of your business.”
“You’re on my ship, and we’re about to go somewhere dangerous,” said March. “It is most certainly my business.”
Northridge scowled. “What, am I supposed to remain pure and virginal and chaste until I settle down to marry some honorably discharged veteran? God, I am tired of that lecture.”
“I’m not the Royal Church,” said March. “And I’ve hardly led a chaste life myself. But Alan’s married…”
She sniffed. “I’m not a child. I’m not stupid enough to think he’ll leave his wife for me. Truth be told, I don’t want him to. He’s…an enjoyable distraction, true. And very vigorous. But I wouldn’t want to live with him.”
“Alan’s married,” repeated March. “An affair is grounds for a dishonorable discharge. What do you think will happen if a Machinist agent approaches him on Burnchain Station and threatens to reveal the affair if he doesn’t cooperate?”
Northridge blinked. Clearly the idea hadn’t occurred to her.
“He…wouldn’t do that,” said Northridge.
“Sure of that?” said March. “You just said you didn’t like him all that much. And if the affair comes out, then he’ll lose his career and probably his marriage and access to his children. What would you do if a Machinist agent approached you and threatened to reveal the affair to your supervisor if you didn’t cooperate? If your supervisor found out, you would lose any security clearance you hold, and probably your job…”
Wrath kindled in her green eyes, and she leaned closer. “I would never work with the Final Consciousness, Jack March. Never. Those bastards murdered my father in front of me. You know what I would do? I would agree to work with the Machinist agent. But then I would go to the Ministry of Security and tell them what had happened.” She smirked. “And I would enjoy the expression on the agent’s face when they arrested him. I know I would lose my career, but it would be worth it. I hate Machinist sympathizers. Someone like you…well, they made you into whatever the hell you are now against your will. But a Machinist sympathizer, they chose it freely. The bastards can all burn for all I care.”
“I’m glad we agree,” said March.
“Good.” Her eyes glittered with cold hate. Something he understood all too well.
“Though they probably wouldn’t arrest the agent right away,” said March, “but would use you to send false information for some time. Misinformation is sometimes more dangerous than a plasma bolt. But it’s still a bad idea to have an affair with a married officer.”
“I’m a grown woman, Captain March,” said Northridge, picking up her breakfast and getting to her feet, “and I know what I’m doing.”
She left the galley, no doubt to eat in her cabin.
“Right on the first,” muttered March, “wrong on the second.”
He finished eating, put the dishes in the cleaner, and headed to the flight cabin. November sat in the co-pilot’s chair, hands folded on his lap, his eyes half-closed as he gazed at the status readouts.
“John,” said March, dropping into the pilot’s acceleration chair.
“I just had,” said November, “a most interesting conversation with Lieutenant Alan.”
“What did he want to talk about?” said March.
“He had grave concerns that Dr. Siegfried is a Mercatorian agent,” said November.
March snorted. “Obviously she is a Mercatorian agent. Unofficially, anyway. That’s the entire reason she’s here.”
“He was also concerned that we might have figured out that he is screwing Dr. Northridge,” said November, “and wasted much time in veiled conversational queries on that topic.”
“For God’s sake,” said March. “I don’t usually complain to Censor, but if we live through this, I am going to complain at length that we were saddled with that pair of idiots.”
“It seems even Censor must bow to the demands of politics from time to time,” said November.
“I would rather have taken another two Alpha Operatives to Burnchain Station,” said March. “Memnon would be good at a job like this.”
“Memnon would want to blow up Burnchain Station,” said November.
“There are worse ideas,” said March.
He hoped to come up with a better one by the time they reached Burnchain Station.
Chapter 5: Burnchain
“ETA to hyperspace terminus point,” announced Vigil, “five minutes, fourteen seconds.”
March grimaced. Once they reached that terminus point, the Tiger would emerge in system JQ9987H, and if November’s data had been accurate and the hyperspace calculation had been correct, they would arrive in normal space a few hundred thousand kilometers from Burnchain Station’s current location.
And then the real work would begin.
March reached over and hit the intercom switch. “We’re five minutes out from JQ9987H. Better come up to the flight cabin.”
He settled back in the pilot’s acceleration chair and watched the countdown. The door to the flight cabin hissed open, and November and Dr. Siegfried entered. Siegfried had warmed up to November, if only because she disliked Northridge and did not approve of the younger woman’s affair with Alan (she had seen them kissing in the gym). November seated himself in the co-pilot’s seat, and Siegfried took the tactical station. About a minute later Northridge entered and sat at the engineering station. Thirty seconds after that, Alan stepped into the cabin. There were no seats left, and no one stood to offer him one, so he settled for leaning against the door once it slid closed.
“It’s time?” said Alan.
“Yeah,” said March, not taking his eyes from his screens and holographic displays. November, Siegfried, and Northridge had taken the other acceleration chairs, but none of them actually knew anything about flying and operating a starship, so he had to focus on piloting. “We’ll see if our forged transponder signal and invitation work properly. If they do and Burnchain Station doesn’t shoot us down, we’ll land, and the hard part begins.”
He heard Northridge swallow. “They might…they might shoot us down?”
“Doubtful,” said November. “Our forgeries are of the highest quality.”
“Are you sure?” said Northridge. “Is there time to double-check?”
“Stay calm,” said March, reaching for the hyperdrive power levers. “Panicking won’t help anything. And we’ll find out just how good those forgeries are…right now.”
He yanked the hyperdrive power levers back, and the Tiger exited hyperspace and returned to normal space.
They had arrived in the outer reaches of system JQ9987H, in the three hundred-million-kilometer gap between two of the ice giants. This far out, the system’s white dwarf was only a harsh blue-white dot in the blackness of space. Data flooded in from the sensors, and March turned the radar, ladar, dark energy sensors, and gravitic detectors to their highest level. There was no point in trying to remain stealthy. Given their paranoia, the Masters had likely detected the Tiger as soon as it had exited hyperspace.
“And here we are,” said November, pointing at the visual display. “Burnchain Station.”
The huge red cylinder of the mobile station floated in the darkness. It gave off a tremendous amount of dark energy and electromagnetic radiation, partly to power its massive hyperdrives, and partly from its immense shields and defensive systems. Burnchain Station’s shielding was at least as strong as the shields around a major Cal
askaran space station, and the sensors detected multiple banks of weaponry – capital ship-grade railguns and plasma batteries, nuclear torpedo launchers, high-wattage lasers, and countless point-defense laser and chain gun turrets. The station had the firepower of a small task force.
There were fifteen starships scattered around the station, ranging from blockade runners about the size of the Tiger to a heavy cruiser. All the ships were running their sensors at maximum power, and alerts flashed across the displays as multiple targeting systems locked onto the Tiger.
Including Burnchain Station, which was doing a sensor focus on the Tiger.
“Incoming tight-beam transmission from Burnchain Station,” announced Vigil. “Video link requested.”
“All right,” said March. “I have to talk to them. Everyone else shut up and stay out of the camera field.”
No one argued.
March took a deep breath and accepted the transmission.
A hooded form appeared on the screen, the face concealed beneath a heavy black cowl. There was a dim blue glow behind the cowled head, likely from instrument displays, but March saw no trace of any identifying marks.
“You will identify yourself,” said the hooded form, the voice twisted and warbling with electronic distortion.
“My name is Captain Seth Harper of the Lion’s Mane, a registered mercenary vessel of the sultanate of Al-Khazmar,” said March. “I am here by the invitation of the Masters of Burnchain Station, and I am empowered to act as the sultan’s purchasing agent in the scheduled auction.”
“You will transmit your invitation,” said the hooded form.
“Acknowledged,” said March. “Transmitting invitation data.”
He hit the transmit key, sending the invitation information November had stored in the ship’s computer.
There was a pause of about thirty seconds. The hooded form looked down and went so motionless that March wondered if the video had paused or frozen. He reached for the navigational controls and started Vigil on an emergency hyperspace calculation, something to get them away from Burnchain Station in case the Masters decided to shoot them down. Though given the immense array of firepower on the station, they might not have time to escape.
The hooded form looked up.
“Welcome to Burnchain Station, Captain Harper,” said the cloaked shape. “The Masters extend their greetings to you. Please proceed to airlock twenty-seven.” Telemetry information flashed across the display. “That will accommodate a vessel of your size.”
“Thank you,” said March.
“You will take this opportunity to hear the rules the Masters decree for their guests,” said the hooded shape. “First, the Masters forbid violence between their guests. Should a fight begin, the aggressors will be executed, and all their ships and possessions forfeit to the Masters. Second, guests are welcome to purchase goods, amenities, services, and luxuries from the businesses operating aboard the station. However, should you find yourself unable to pay for any of your purchases, you will be enslaved, and sold to a suitable broker at the Masters’ convenience.”
“We brought our own food and drink,” said March.
The hooded shape gave no response. “Third, you will be assigned a Guide for the duration of your stay at Burnchain Station. The Masters have assigned Guides as a courtesy to their guests, and the Guide can direct you to several complimentary and free amenities. However, should the Guide issue any instructions, you will obey them at once. Failure to comply will result in your executions. Are these rules understood?”
“Perfectly,” said March.
“Excellent,” said the hooded form. “Proceed to your airlock. Your Guide awaits you there. I suggest you hasten. You are one of the last emissaries to arrive, and the auction will begin in ninety minutes.”
“Very well,” said March.
The transmission ended, and March let out a long breath.
“Well,” said Siegfried. “They seem pleasant.”
“I can assure you that they most certainly are not,” said November.
“John,” said March. “Get everyone ready like we discussed. Once I’ve got the ship docked, I’ll join you.”
“I still don’t think I should carry a gun,” said Northridge.
March was inclined to agree with her.
“You need a weapon,” said March. “Don’t start anything, but you need a weapon. The Masters have their rules, but Burnchain Station is filled with the kind of men and women who will do whatever they think they can get away with.”
“He is correct, Dr. Northridge,” said Alan. “The better armed we are, the less likely someone will start trouble with us.”
“Come along, Dr. Northridge, Dr. Siegfried, Lieutenant Alan,” said November, getting to his feet. “We have at least ten minutes until Captain March has the Tiger…or, rather, the Lion’s Mane…docked. Plenty of time to prepare ourselves.”
The four of them left the flight cabin, and March focused on flying, steering the Tiger across the void towards Burnchain Station. As he did, he checked the sensor readouts, noting the ships arrayed around the station and docked at its platforms and airlocks. March wasn’t sure, but based on the starship count, he thought between fifty and eighty different governments and organizations had sent representatives to the auction. Every troublemaker with the necessary funds would want the biomorphic fungi.
A Machinist capital warship caught his eye.
It was a fast attack frigate, heavily armed and armored yet swift and stealthy, designed to execute hit-and-run attacks. All Machinist starships looked ugly, like blocky black insects adorned with green highlights, but something about the shape of the frigate seemed especially menacing. It put March in mind of a cybernetic predator crouched atop a roof and waiting for prey to pass below.
The Machinists had indeed sent an emissary to bid upon the bioweapon. A fast attack frigate like that was the perfect ship to carry a Cognarch to a clandestine meeting.
He put the thought out of his mind, watching the range to the station count down. At last the Tiger drew close enough that March cut the fusion drive, and he guided the ship the rest of the way on ion thrusters, rotating at last so the stern pointed at the vast red bulk of Burnchain Station.
There was a clang, and a shiver went through the deck.
“Docking complete,” announced Vigil.
“Great,” said March. He took a moment to lock down the ship, enabling the highest level of security. As part of the information warfare defense protocol, Vigil would not accept any incoming transmissions save from March’s phone and November’s. If there was unauthorized access, the ship would shut down life support, suck the air from the habitable areas, and lock the flight cabin and the engineering room.
Though if the Masters wanted to commandeer the Tiger, March knew that would not slow them down. Hopefully, it would keep any other troublemakers from trying to steal or sabotage the ship.
He paused for a moment. Given the massive amounts of security here, it would be unlikely that he could get the biomorphic fungi away from the Masters themselves. No, he would have to wait until someone bought the damned stuff, and then follow them. March could either seize an opportunity to destroy the weapon, or follow the buyers, give their location to the Royal Navy, and let the fleet deal with them.
March had one advantage. Of everyone who had come to Burnchain Station, he was the only one who wanted to destroy the biomorphic fungi. That would give him opportunities that might otherwise have been unavailable. For that matter, some of the Masters’ other guests might attempt to steal the canisters. In the chaos, he could have the opportunity to destroy the weapon.
He shook his head and got to his feet. It was impossible to plan until he had more information. March and the others would simply have to remain adaptable and seize any available opportunities. He would have preferred a plan…but he had been in enough fights to know that plans were often the first casualties of a battle.
The first, but never the last.
>
The flight cabin door locked behind him as March stepped into the dorsal corridor. November wore his usual clothes, though with a shoulder rig concealed beneath a black coat looser than his usual preference. Alan had changed to a Calaskaran business suit, a shoulder holster beneath his coat. Both Siegfried and Northridge had donned blue ship crewer’s jumpsuits, gun belts around their waists. Neither woman looked very intimidating, truth be told. Fortunately, they were wearing boots instead of high heels. They might have to run for their lives if this went bad.
“I believe we are ready,” said November.
“Good,” said March. He stepped into the armory and equipped himself, wrapping a gun belt around his waist and putting plasma pistols on either hip. Spare power packs went into the belt, and knives into his coat sleeves. He didn’t think the Masters would let him carry grenades on Burnchain Station, so he left them behind.
Northridge looked him up and down. “Do you think you have enough weapons?”
“No,” said March. “Let’s go.”
He led the way down the dorsal corridor, through the cargo bay, and into the cargo airlock. The airlock cycled, and they stepped into an anteroom built of polished gray metal, subdued light coming from ornamental sconces on the walls. At the far end of the anteroom was a door leading to the main concourse of Burnchain Station.
“All right,” said March. “I expect our Guide will be on the other side of the door. Remember to let me and November do the talking.”
No one objected, and March walked to the door.
It hissed open, and they stepped into the main concourse.
It looked like a ridiculously expensive shopping mall.
The floor was slabs of polished white marble, their reflections visible in the stone. That much stone, and the engine mass and reaction power to haul it through hyperspace must have been hideously expensive. The walls had been painted white and rose to a delicate arch far overhead, the lighting subdued and gentle. There were fountains on the main floor, though the water in the fountains was provided by a combination of good lighting and holographic trickery. (Drinkable water was too precious in interstellar space for even the Masters to waste it.) The railings of the balconies overhead were all brushed aluminum, and the clerks and staff of the various businesses lining the concourse were dressed in crisp black formal wear. It looked like any number of high-end shopping malls patronized by the wealthy elite of a planetary economy.
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