Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

by Anthology

  “Everyone,” worry wrenched Gavin’s gut and he couldn’t keep it from his voice, “form up on the Cassiopeia. We have a pilot down.”

  Something in his voice quieted the line. His ships emerged from the Teclis Band and rallied to the transport.

  Gods.

  What was he going to say to Dell? Gavin swallowed hard, blinking fast and trying to think. He should do something. The transport had been hit. He might have other injured pilots. Maybe Walt had been right.

  “Hold position until we recover Boomer.” He switched channels to address the transport. “Cassiopeia, this is Red One. We’re scrubbing the mission. Prepare for return to Nexus.”

  “Ah…Red One, damage is minimal and under control. We are able to proceed.”

  Gavin couldn’t. He had to get Boomer back to Vista Landing.

  Jazza’s voice shook. “Gods. They OK’d him, didn’t they?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Take him home, Gav. We’ll tag his ship and tow it on the return trip.”

  He nodded, knowing she couldn’t see, but not trusting himself to speak. What was he going to tell Dell?

  “Get him there fast,” Jazza said.

  “I will.”

  ***

  Gavin’s mobiGlas buzzed and he activated it. Anyone he actually cared to speak with knew to find him in the office if they needed to talk. Dell was in the med center. She’d made it abundantly clear that she did not want to see him. Jazza had returned with the team after the mission, but they were giving the family a wide berth. Anything getting past his message filters was probably important. And anything important was most likely bad news.

  The incoming message was from Barry. Suspicion of bad news, confirmed. He connected the call.

  “Gavin. Buddy. Listen, I’ve got some news. This is just a ’heads up’ call, okay? Not a big deal. Is your brother there with you?”

  “Walt left,” even to his own ears, Gavin’s voice sounded flat. “You can give your message to me.”

  “I got word from a buddy of mine in Contracting. They’re issuing an FTP on the Tyrol contract. It’ll probably go out in the next day or two. Sorry, Gavin.”

  “Don’t be,” Gavin wasn’t angry with Barry. He really wasn’t. But his words were coming out sharper than he meant them to. “Just tell me what the hell an FTP is.”

  “Sorry. FTP is a Failure To Perform notification.”

  He knew it had to be bad. Barry wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t. Damn it! What was next? Vanduul attacks? He’d gone over and over every report from Brock’s files. Never—not in any file—was there evidence of such coordinated and vicious attacks.

  Barry read his silence correctly. “Hey, these things get issued all the time, man. I’m just letting you know that it’s coming so you don’t freak out. A couple holes in a transport is nothing when you’re going through a lawless system like Min. They won’t pull your contract for that.”

  “What will they pull it for?”

  “Well,” Barry drew out the word, speaking slowly and choosing his words carefully. “You’d have to receive back-to-back FTPs. Or if you lost the transport or something, that’d obviously do it. But Major Greely is pulling for you guys. He’s big on the UEE’s plan to enfranchise local civilian contractors.”

  Just what he needed. More pressure. “Thanks, Barry.”

  “Keep your chin up, buddy. You guys are doing fine, okay? I mean, you should hear what goes on with other contracts. Seriously, this is nothing.”

  “Thanks again.” Gavin disconnected the line. It certainly didn’t feel like they were doing fine. The office door slid open, and Jazza stood silhouetted against the corridor lights.

  “Jazz?” Gavin’s stomach sank. He tried to swallow but his throat was tight. “What is it? Where’s Dell?”

  She took a step inside and the room’s lights reflected in the wet corners of her brimming eyes. She held herself together, but the effort to do so was visible.

  “It’s Boomer,” she said, “It was too much damage this time. He’s…he’s really gone.”

  ***

  A recorded hymn played as they sent Arun “Boomer” Ainsley into whatever great adventure awaits in the everafter. Gavin set the service in the Rhedd Alert hangar, and the recording sounded terrible. The last somber note rebounded off the room’s hard surfaces and harsh angles.

  He wished they could have had a live band. He would have paid for an orchestra, if one were to be had on the orbital station. Even a bugle would have been better tribute for the man who had brought Dell into his life. For the man who taught him and Walt so much about living a free life in the outer systems.

  Dell’s arm felt small around his waist and Gavin pulled her in close to him, unsure if that was the right thing to do. He turned to kiss her hair and saw Walt’s lean form looming beside them. Walt’s face was fixed in a grim mask.

  Gavin knew his brother well enough to know that Walt was berating himself inside. He didn’t deal well with guilt or responsibility, and Gavin suspected that was a big part of why Walt always ran.

  The gathering started to break up. Pilots and the hangar crew busied themselves with tasks around Rhedd Alert’s battered fleet of fighters. Dell didn’t move, so he stayed there with her. Walt rested a hand on his shoulder.

  “Gavin. Oh gods, Dell. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  Jazza leaned in and spoke in a low tone, almost a whisper. “Landing gear up in ten, boss. Your rig is on the buggy.” She motioned with her chin to where his ship waited.

  Dell turned into him and squeezed. “Be careful.”

  “I will, babe.”

  “You come home to me, Gavin Rhedd. I’ll kill you myself if you make me run this outfit on my own.”

  He pressed his lips to the top of her head. Held them there.

  “Wait. What?” Walt’s jaw was slack, his eyes wide. “Tell me you aren’t going back out there.”

  Jazza bumped Walt with her shoulder, not so much walking past him as through him. “Damn right we are, Quitter.”

  “You know what? Screw you, Jazz. All right? You used to quit this outfit, like…twice a month.”

  “Not like you. Not like some chicken sh—”

  “Jazz,” Gavin said, “go make sure the team is ready to roll, would ya?” With a nod to Gavin and a parting glare at Walt, she moved away into the hangar.

  “Let it be, Walt. We really do need to go. After last time, we can’t risk being late for the pickup.”

  “Screw late!” Walt’s eyes were wide and red-rimmed around the edges. “Why the happy hells are you going at all?”

  “Walt—”

  “Don’t ‘Walt’ me, Gavin. There is a pack of psychopaths out there trying to kill you!”

  “Walt, would you shut up and listen for two seconds? We don’t have a choice, okay? We’ve got everything riding on this job. We’re months behind on this place and extended up to our necks on credit for fuel, parts and ammo.”

  “They can damn well bill me!”

  “No,” Gavin said, “they can’t. Your shares reverted back to the company when you quit. But I’m legit now. You think we lived life on the run before? Just you watch if I try to run from this.”

  Walt turned to Dell for assistance, “Dell, come on. You gotta make him listen to reason.”

  “Boomer’s shares transferred to me when he died,” Dell said. “We’re in this together.”

  “Okay, boss,” Jazza called. The three of them looked to where she stood with a line of determined crew. “It’s time.”

  ***

  Walt watched the big bay doors close as the last of Gavin’s team left the hangar. His fighter and the few remaining ships looked small and awkwardly out of place in the big room. Standing alone next to Dell gave him a great appreciation for that awkwardness.

  “I’m so sorry, Dell. If I’d been there—”

  “Don’t,” she stopped him with a word, and then continued with a shake of her blue-tipped hair. “Don't do th
at to yourself. I’ve been over the tactical logs. He got beat one-on-one, and then they OK’d him. There was nothing you could have done.”

  “I still feel rotten,” he said. “Like, maybe if I hadn’t left…I don’t know.”

  “Gavin blames himself, too. That’s just the way you two are built. But believe me, there was never a soul alive able to keep my dad out of the cockpit. He was flying long before you Rhedd boys tumbled into our lives.”

  That gave him a smile. A genuine smile. It seemed to brighten Dell’s mood, so he did his best to hang onto it.

  “Come on,” she said. “It’s been a long couple of weeks. Join me for some coffee?”

  He did, and for a time they spoke softly at the tall tables in the hangar’s kitchenette. Dell caught him up on life aboard Vista Landing since he had left. She was clearly exhausted and not simply from a sleepless night and her father’s funeral. Her shoulders sagged, and dark circles under her eyes were the product of weeks of labor and worry. The constant apprehension of the Hornets’ vicious attacks had apparently exhausted more than just the pilots. It seemed odd that the attacks felt strangely personal.

  “You know what I can’t figure out?” he mused aloud. Dell looked at him, tired eyes politely expectant. “What the hell are these guys after?”

  She nodded, “Yeah. There’s been a lot of speculating on that question.”

  “And?”

  “Hard to say, isn’t it? Could be political wackos opposed to the research in Haven. Or maybe it’s one of the old gangs that don’t like us going legit. Could be it’s a group of Tevarin lashing out against UEE targets. Who knows?”

  “Naw. If they were Tevarin, we could tell by how they fly.”

  “Then you tell me, if you’re so smart. I mean, you were out there. You fought them.”

  Walt shrugged and took a sip of cooling coffee. Something she said nagged at him. “Hey, you said you had navsat tactical logs from the fight, right?”

  “Yeah.” What remained of her energy seemed to drain away with that one word. Walt cursed himself for the insensitive ass that he was. He’d just asked her about recorded replays of her father’s murder.

  “Dell. Ah, hell…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve been over and over them already. Really, I don’t mind.”

  They moved to a console and the lights dimmed automatically when she pulled up the hangar projection. She selected a ship, and oriented the view so that the hologram of Boomer’s Avenger filled the display. No, Walt reminded himself, it wasn’t Boomer’s ship any more. Dell was his heir and—along with his debt—Boomer’s assets now belonged to her.

  Dell bypassed the default display of the structural hardpoints and dove into the ship’s systems. Something caught his eye and he stopped her. “Wait, back up.” She did, and Walt stopped the rotating display to look along the undercarriage of the ship. He let out a low whistle.

  “That, Walter Rhedd, is a Tarantula GT-870 Mk3.”

  “I know what it is. But where did you get it?”

  “Remember those pirates that gave us so much trouble in Oberon? I pulled it before we sold the salvage.”

  He certainly did remember, and the bastards had kicked the crap out of two of their ships with their Tarantulas. “How’d you get it mounted on an Avenger?”

  “Hammer therapy,” she said. He gave her a confused look, and she held up one arm, curling it to make a muscle. “I beat the hell out of it until it did what I wanted.”

  “Damn, girl.”

  “Did you want to see the flight recorder?”

  They watched the navsat replays together in silence. It looked like one hell of a fight. Chaotic. Frantic. The Rhedd Alert fighters were hard pressed.

  Jazza had moments of tactical brilliance. As much as she rubbed him the wrong way, Walt had to admit that she made her Cutlass dance steps for which it wasn’t designed. Gavin orchestrated a coherent strategy and had committed extra fighters to drive off the attack. Something was wrong, though. Something about the fight didn’t make sense.

  Walt had Dell replay the scene so he could focus on the marauders. It didn’t look like much of a fight at all from that perspective. It looked more like a game and only one team understood how all the pieces moved. The Hornets flew to disrupt, to confuse. They knew Gavin would send a force forward to protect the transport. He’d done it every time they had met.

  “See that?” he said. “They break apart there and get called immediately back into formation. They never leave a flank exposed. Our guys never get a real opening.” He pointed out one of the attacking Hornets. “That one calls the shots.”

  “That’s the one that OK’d Boomer.”

  Reds and greens from the navsat display sparkled in Dell’s eyes. Her voice was emotionless and flat. Walt didn’t want to see her like that, so he focused again on the display.

  The marauder he’d identified as the leader broke from the melee. Gavin gave chase, but from too far behind. Boomer intercepted, was disabled, and his PRB flashed red on the display. The Hornet took a pass at the transport before turning to rejoin its squad. Then it decelerated, pausing before the overkill on Boomer.

  “Why take only one pass at the transport? They’ve hit us, what? Six times? Seven? And once they finally get a shot at the target, they bug out?”

  “You said, ‘us’,” Dell teased. “You back to stay?”

  Walt huffed a small laugh. “We’ll see.”

  “We’ve been lucky,” Dell offered in answer to his question. “So far, we’ve chased them off.”

  “You really believe that? They had this fight won if they wanted it. And how do they keep finding us? It’s like they’ve taken up permanent residence in our damned flight path.”

  That was it. He had it. The revelation must have shown on his face.

  “What?” Dell asked. “What is it?”

  “Back it up to the strafe on the Aquila.”

  Dell did, and they watched it again. He felt like an ass for making her watch the murder of her father over again, but he had to be sure of what he saw.

  And there it was. Strafe. Turn. Pause. A decision to commit. An escalating act of brutality. And then they were gone.

  “She’s not after the transport at all. We were her target this whole time.”

  “Wait,” Dell said, “what she? Her who?”

  “Please tell me your ex hasn’t drunk himself out of a job with the Navy.”

  “Barry? Of course not, why?”

  “Because I just figured out who killed your father.”

  ***

  Morgan Brock called the meeting to a close and dismissed her admin team. Riebeld caught her eye and lifted one hand off the table—a request for her to stay while the others shuffled out of the conference room.

  Riebeld kept her waiting until they were alone, and then stood to close the door.

  “I take it,” Brock said, “that our Tyrol problem persists despite the escalation?”

  “I got word during the meeting”—he took a seat beside her at the table, voice pitched low—“that they should be making the jump to Nexus soon.”

  “Our discreet pilots? Are they deployed or here at the station?”

  His answer was slow in coming, his nod reluctant. “They are here.”

  Brock checked the time. Did some mental math. “Disguise the ships. We will leave at 1700 and meet them in Charon just inside the gate from Min.”

  “Morgan,” Riebeld’s eyes roamed the room, “these guys aren’t taking the hint. I don’t know what losses we have to hand them before they back down, but…I don’t know. Part of doing business is losing bids, am I right?” She didn’t disagree and he continued. “Maybe…Maybe we ought to write this one off?”

  “A comfortable position to hold in your seat, Riebeld. Your commission is based on the contract value. I barely turned a profit on that job for years. I did it willingly, with the expected reward of windfall profits when traffic to Haven surges.�
�

  “I get that,” he said. “I really do. But at some point we have to call it a loss and focus on the next thing, right?”

  “Then suppose that we let the Tyrol job go, and Greely and Navy SysCom see what they want to see from boutique contractors. I can already imagine anti-establishment politicians pushing for more outsourced work. Hell, they will probably promise contracts to buy votes in their home systems.”

  She watched him squirm. It wasn’t like him to wrestle with his conscience. Frankly, she was disappointed to learn that he’d found one.

  “If Rhedd Alert won’t withdraw willingly,” she said, “then they will have to fail the hard way. Prep the ships, Riebeld. We have done very well together, you and I. You should know that I won’t back away from what is mine.” He seemed to appreciate her sincerity, but Brock wanted to hear the cocksure salesman say it. “Are we clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Riebeld swallowed and stood. “Perfectly clear.”

  ***

  “Any luck?” Walt pulled up Barry’s record in his mobiGlas and hit connect.

  Dell sat at the hangar console trying to reach Gavin and the team. Her brow furrowed in a grimace and she shook her head.

  “Damn. Okay, keep trying.”

  Barry connected. The accountant wore his uniform. He was on duty, wherever he was, and his projected face looked genuinely mournful. “Hey,” he said, “long time no see, man. Listen, I can’t tell you how sad I am about Boomer.”

  “Thanks.” Barry had known Dell and Boomer for most his life. He’d probably been torn between attending the service and allowing the family to grieve in privacy. Regardless, commiseration would have to wait. “We need your help, Barry. Please tell me that you have access to the proposals for the Tyrol contract.”

  “Of course I do. And who’s we? Are you back with Dell and Gavin?”

  “I am,” he felt Dell’s eyes on him when he said it. “Anyway, we need a favor. I need to know the ship models and configurations proposed by the incumbent.”

  “Morgan Brock’s outfit, sure. No can do on the ship data, though. That information is all confidential. Only the price proposals are available for public review, and those only during the protest period.”