“You must be rich.”
“Rich, famous, handsome... and bored. Once one has pitted his life against the enemy in battle, all else pales in comparison.”
“Except sex.”
“One can only fill so much time with sex.”
“Sounds like you’re not trying hard enough.” Loco gestured in the direction of the bar. “Let’s get a drink.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
* * *
Straker found the two drinking in the Independence’s wardroom, the officers’ combination dining room and bar. On the flagship this was a relatively large space, with room for two hundred in a pinch. It stayed full of officers and their families on rotating mealtimes, given how many Breakers were aboard. Troops volunteered to serve as bartenders and wait-staff. Given that much of the dirty work was done by robots wirelessly operated by Indy, it was easy duty during the long, boring days of sidespace travel.
“Hey, boss,” Loco said. “Give us a hand here?”
“I gotta hand it to you, that was funny.” Straker punched Loco in the shoulder with his left fist. A metal fitting covered his right stump, protecting the hand regenerating there.
“Ow. Careful now. If it comes to hand-to-hand, I bet I could take you handily.”
“You and your hand-me-down jokes.”
“I try to be evenhanded with them.”
“Keeps your hand in.”
“Okay, I surrender.” Loco chuckled. “Now that we’re all in transit, you gonna tell us where we’re going?”
Straker called for a Sachsen brew as he parked himself at the bar. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“It would be nice to prepare,” Loco said. “We are supposed to be a military organization.”
The grizzled senior sergeant tending bar set an icy stein of beer in front of Straker and began wiping down the wood-grained surface nearby. Straker didn’t send him away. One of the perks of working the wardroom was getting to listen in on officer conversations and passing the scuttlebutt around.
After draining half the stein, Straker replied, “I think we’re more of an armed nomad caravan now.” He waved at the busy room. “Just look at all these people. Children on the flagship. Families!”
“And they’re happy,” Loco said.
“Can’t figure out why. We may have won our battle, but we still had to leave our home. And there are more battles to come.”
“It’s like I said. We are a military organization, Derek. It may not be cool to say out loud, but career warriors need some war now and then or they feel useless. In fact, Zaxby was just saying how bored he was without a fight.”
Zaxby lifted his smelly sea-beer. “It is well that war is so terrible, else we would grow fond of it. So said General Robert E. Lee.”
“You’ve been reading human history?” Straker asked.
“As we Ruxins are doomed to be an alien minority among humans, I thought it wise to learn all I could. Unfortunately, few humans read Ruxin history.”
Loco waggled his eyebrows, mocking. “Ruxins got history?”
Zaxby rolled all four eyes in return. “You see what I must deal with.” He sniffed. “Philistines.”
“Back to our destination...” Loco said.
Straker drummed his fingers. “We’re heading for Crossroads. From there, we’ll figure it out.”
“Crossroads?” Loco asked.
Zaxby replied, “An aptly named star system beyond the far side of what humans term the frontier. Of course, it is only a frontier to humans. To the many other races of the galaxy, it is merely an extensive area of space unclaimed by any empire, usually called the Middle Reach. Each star system is self-governing in its own manner.”
“Um, about Crossroads?” Loco said again.
“Crossroads is the literal translation of the system’s name,” Zaxby continued. “It’s well placed as a stopover along the natural trade routes among more than thirty separate regimes, and free traders from hundreds more visit. It’s governed by the Conglomerate, a group of what you would call corporations, whose main concern is keeping order, doing business, and extracting fees for use of its facilities.”
“Fees...” Straker mused. “What do they use for money?”
“Various forms of credit, much as all civilized species do,” Zaxby said. “Conglomerate credit has become the primary currency in the Middle Reach. The real question is, what will we trade to them to obtain credits?”
“Well, we don’t have a lot of goods to trade, so that leaves services.”
“Military services, you mean,” Loco said.
“Yes. It’s what we’re good at.” Straker looked bleak. “It means trading lives for credits, at least until we put down some kind of roots and establish a new homeworld. After that, we can branch out.”
“You know boss, I’m fine with fighting for pay, but how do you feel about it?”
Straker finished off his beer and called for another. “Ambivalent. Conflicted. But it’s been five years since we saved humanity from the Crystals and the Opters. Those five years have been the most stable since I left home for Academy. I’m past thirty now. I’m directly responsible for forty thousand people, including my own family. I don’t have the luxury of being high-minded anymore.”
“Well, well, well,” Loco said. “A new Straker emerges—leaving the hero complex behind.”
Straker got a far-off look in his eyes. “For now. We’ll come back someday and set things right.”
Chapter 7
Admiral Engels, aboard Independence, in transit to Crossroads.
By the fourth week in sidespace, with three more to go, everyone was suffering from a certain level of cabin fever. A brisk work schedule and plenty of entertainments helped, but Engels found herself longing for the seas and rocky cliffs of Culloden, and its deep green forests filled with a blend of native and introduced animals.
Five years planetside and I’m spoiled, she thought. For fifteen years, from Academy onward, I spent my life in ships and hardly thought about it. Now, even our giant quarters aboard this flagship seems cramped.
Of course, adding in two children of age five and six made things more interesting and even more crowded. Having a robot nanny run by Indy helped a lot. How did other mothers do it? She felt guilty even though she knew her position and workload justified the privilege.
That was another thing that pissed her off. Culloden’s economy had just begun to hit its stride. Legitimate wealth based on hard work had been just around the corner. Then that asshole Steel and his Blueshirts had messed everything up. Now, she had forty thousand cranky people crowded aboard ships, all needing food, oxygen, waste processing, maintenance.
Adding to the pressure, the warships they’d captured had all been damaged by the fighting. They were short of parts and materials, and had already cannibalized some of the transports in order to make sure the warships were combat-capable.
When they arrived, what would the fleet look like? Would all the ships even arrive? Each vessel was on its own in that strange dimension, except those docked together. Crews and resources had been reallocated before departure, but during the trip each crew would have to perform its own repairs.
And at Crossroads, what would they have left to pay for what they needed? The Breakers had modest reserves of rare minerals, drugs, chemicals, spices—but she had no idea what would be valuable. She and everyone else combed the databases for answers, but information was spotty, uncertain at best.
The one thing they did know was that Crossroads Conglomerate credit was the gold standard across the Middle Reach. Everyone took it, everyone wanted it, and it was the most secure currency available, theoretically impossible to counterfeit or replicate due to its subquantum blockchain composition.
The question remained: how to earn it?
* * *
When they arrived at the Crossroads system, the Breakers fleet—one flagship, six human warships, sixteen skimmers and eighteen transports—remained in flatspace, well beyon
d the edge of the star’s significant gravity influence. As soon as they’d transited in, automated beacons had warned them against entering curved space without proper clearance.
What Crossroads could do against an armed fleet Engels wasn’t sure, but she was in uncharted territory now, operating from sketchy information collected from many sources. The last known Republic scout ship to spend seven weeks in sidespace in order to visit Crossroads had done so six years ago, and had not been allowed to approach the inner system. “No belligerents” was Crossroads’ advertised rule, and the definition of “belligerent” was obviously up to the Conglomerate.
She ordered Commander Sinden and her team to present a quick overview of the situation, along with potential courses of action, using the information flooding into the fleet’s sensors.
The problem wasn’t lack of info—it was information overload. Indy had detected more than one million vessels in the system, ranging from tiny craft that must be either robotic or occupied by beings much smaller than humans, to local ships well beyond the sidespace mass limit. There were also millions of asteroids and comets, many of which had facilities attached to or built on them.
Crossroads lived up to its name. It was the busiest place she’d ever seen.
“Show us Crossroads proper,” Engels said after Sinden had presented her initial summary. The gigantic trading post appeared in the hologram above the conference table, a lumpy sphere of construction five hundred kilometers in diameter, hinting at its origins as a moon or planetoid.
“Big,” Straker said. “Biggest manufactured object I’ve ever seen, anyway.”
“It’s quite large for a station,” Sinden replied. “More than one thousand years ago, it was established on one of the moons of Crossroads-4, a gas giant.” Sinden smoothly manipulated the display to show a diagram of the system, illustrating her narration as if she were teaching a class. “About ninety years later the owners, the Fugjios Conglomerate, broke the moon free from planetary orbit. Over several years’ time, they moved it into a stellar orbit much nearer its sun.”
“Why?” Loco said.
“Three reasons, it appears. One, the conglomerate was embroiled in a political dispute with the system’s legal government, which originated on Crossroads-2, a life-bearing world inhabited by a saurian race called the Kell. The Kell claimed jurisdiction over all existing planets and moons in their home system—but not maneuverable stations. Due to that loophole in their legal claim, the Conglomerate was able to evade Kell authority by declaring the moon a movable station—by moving it and becoming a new, independent nation.”
“You said three reasons?” Engels asked. “What are the other two?”
“Security and cheap power. By moving the station closer to the star, travel time from flatspace was lengthened, giving the Conglomerate a good long look at everyone coming to trade. And, with cheap, plentiful solar power, Crossroads need no longer rely on hydrogen isotopes collected from the gas giant claimed by the Kell.”
“Makes sense,” Engels acknowledged.
The display zoomed back in on Crossroads, in a stellar orbit exactly opposite the Kell planet. “Over the next nine hundred years, the Kell’s power waned as the Conglomerate’s grew. Crossroads was transformed into a vast commercial spaceport by processing the substance of the planetoid into structural materials. In terms of sheer size and economic activity, it’s more than fifteen times as large as any other known trading center.”
“Bigger than Atlantis?” Engels asked incredulously. She’d seen the hundreds of habitats and thousands of satellites orbiting the Republic’s most prosperous planet, backed up by a population of over twenty billion.
“Much larger, in terms of trade and credit flows. It is, in effect, a floating city five hundred kilometers square—and five hundred kilometers deep. Every centimeter of Crossroads is used for trade—materials, services, deal-making, banking, anything you can think of. It’s also jealously neutral in any disputes among the hundreds of alien races and regimes, so it’s a diplomatic center as well. The Conglomerate is strict and bureaucratic but extremely fair. In fact, it’s the system’s government in all but name.”
“Hmm,” Straker said. “A government based on nothing but money. Seems like it would be thoroughly corrupt.”
“Quite the opposite,” Sinden replied. “Its very wealth provides prosperity for all who have money or want to work for it.”
“And for those who don’t?” Loco asked.
“Like you?” Zaxby interjected.
Loco pointed an accusing finger. “Nice one, buddy. You just wait.”
“In answer to your question,” Sinden said with ice in her voice, “it’s against the Regulations—their law—to be indigent. All punishments are based on fining the offender and making restitution to the victims.”
“All punishments? So you commit a crime and just... pay everyone off?” Straker said, clearly appalled.
“In theory. However, some fines carry mandatory caveats, such as work in unpleasant conditions, temporary slave-links, or expulsion from Crossroads space. For the law-abiding, with clear legal paths to satisfy ambition, plus swift and relatively impartial enforcement of law, most corruption is minimized. It’s not a perfect system, and many freedoms are curtailed, but it has functioned admirably for more than a millennium.”
“Freedoms are curtailed?” Loco asked. “What freedoms?”
“Mostly freedom of speech. There are strict codes about any communication or action that harms legitimate business. In other areas, the laws are quite loose. Most drugs and personal activities are legal, if often regulated or zoned.” Sinden rapped the table with a knuckle to emphasize her point. “One key takeaway is this: in Conglomerate regulations, there is no moral weight or public record. If you commit a crime, and then fulfill all imposed obligations—fines, restitution, mandatory conditions—your public legal record is expunged. As far as the Fugjios Conglomerate is concerned, you never did anything wrong. Everything is business, just business.”
“Weird, but straightforward,” Straker said. “Indy, work with our JAG section to study up on all this legal stuff. We need to stay out of legal trouble if we’re going to do business here.”
“And what is our business?” Zaxby asked.
“We’re looking for a fight.” Straker grinned. “A mercenary commission, that is.”
“Mercenaries are legal?” Loco wondered.
“Remember, there’s no interstellar government in the Middle Reach,” Engels said. “Nobody can stop a fighting force from hiring itself out. The trick will be to only get involved in disputes where both sides will respect the usual laws of war—surrenders, taking and exchanging prisoners, avoiding targeting noncombatants—things like that.” She gave Straker a pointed look. “We don’t want to get into any more fights to the death where the Breakers take severe casualties. That’s all behind us now, right?”
“Yes, Carla,” Straker said mildly, stroking his jawline. “We’ve all discussed this thoroughly over the last seven weeks. Our forces—our people—are our stock in trade. We’ll conserve them.”
“The families will be happy to hear that,” Engels said with only a touch of sarcasm.
“But we can’t be scared of a fight,” he added.
“That’s not what I’m concerned about. I’m concerned about all the little Johnnies and Katies and Carlas and Dereks who might lose parents. Before, we were working for the people and the government. Now, we are the people and the government—our own government. It’s just us. The Breakers. A family. Every time we go into battle, it’s a family fight.”
Straker sighed. “You’ve said all this a dozen times. I got it.”
Engels lapsed into silence, realizing Derek was right. She’d belabored her arguments. No point in pushing it further. Motherhood really had changed her, despite her desire to remain a combat commander. Why was it mothers changed more than fathers? No doubt because children were made from the bodies of women, not men. A father would love his
children, but to a mother, they were literally part of herself, a connection felt deep in her bones. It made her cautious and conservative.
Maybe that was why biology let fathers maintain some distance. Too much caution, and necessary risks would never be taken. Too much risk, and the offspring died to no purpose.
Not for the first time Engels wondered if the Ruxins had a better system—propagate dozens or hundreds of spawn and let the strongest survive. They only invested emotion in their children once the little octopoids learned to talk. Before that, they might have been domestic animals for all the care they took of them.
“Awkward,” Loco singsonged, bringing Engels’ attention back to the briefing.
“So what you’re saying, Nancy,” Straker said, “is that inside Crossroads space, there’s law and order, but out here in flatspace it’s the Wild West.”
“There is no west in space, Derek Straker,” Zaxby said.
“It’s a metaphor, Zaxby. Look it up.”
“I shall.” He touched the aug implanted where his head joined the rest of his body, activating it. “I see. From Old Earth, a reference to the North American continent’s highly unstable western region during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. More generally, an area lacking central government and often characterized by violence, populated with a wide variety of individuals and groups, each with its own disparate goals.”
Straker nodded. “That works. The point is, we’re on our own.”
* * *
Hours later, with the fleet drawn in around the flagship in order to let grabships and shuttles flit from ship to ship making repairs and transferring supplies, Indy requested Engels report to the bridge, along with the rest of the available command staff.
“Something important?” Engels said as she strode onto the bridge and took the flag chair. She saw all stations were manned, including the assistants—a double watch.
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