Hegemony

by Kalina, Mark

  "Rest assured, Captain, that we will not fail to take appropriate measures with regard to this information, nor fail to note the courage and cool thinking that was required to obtain it."

  The acro-telestos' residence on Yuro IV was an estate of smoothly landscaped gardens and flowering orchards. Land was obviously cheap on Yuro IV, and labor too, if the acro-telestos could afford this estate. Or perhaps the man was even richer than his exalted rank suggested. A Yuro System Defense Fleet military aircar had brought her to this audience immediately after her debriefing at the Yuro System Defense Fleet Headquarters, and Freya had been in no condition to properly observe the grounds on the way in, but a quick lookup via her data link had shown her the enormous size of the estate. Now she could see the rolling hills and stands of blazing red flowering trees through the huge curved windows behind the acro-telestos' formal seat. The landscape was manicured and sculpted as far as the eye could see. It would be nice to take a stroll, she thought.

  "In fact," Irular continued, in his smooth, perfect tones, "we have in mind a recognition of your skill and bravery, Captain."

  "A recognition, Acro-telestos?" Freya felt gratitude and relief, but underneath a suspicion; the man's tones were too perfect, meant to convey, to inflict those feelings. "Sir, I was only doing my duty as an officer of the Fleet."

  "Duty does not mitigate valor, Captain," said the acro-telestos. "Your performance was exceptional, in exceptionally severe circumstances.

  "I have here," he went on, drawing out a data chip from his flowing silver garment, "a warrant granting you command of the Hegemonic warship Horizon Warden; she is docked at the Orbital Anchorage right now, awaiting her new captain."

  Freya was aware of the yawning silence as the smooth tones of the acro-telestos' words faded. Through the curved sweep of glass, she could just make out the sounds of birds and waterfalls in the garden. Her mind whirled, but for what seemed like long minutes she could say nothing.

  "Sir, uhm... that is, sir, I'm a serving officer of the Hegemonic Central Throne Fleet. I can't simply leave my command in the Fleet to take up a system defense fleet appointment." It must be a system defense fleet ship, Freya thought. Her query of this system's Fleet command headquarters had shown no Central Throne Fleet units currently in the system save for her truncated squadron of two swift-ships.

  "But of course you can, my dear Captain. This is a perfectly proper order transferring you to detached exchange service with the illustrious Yuro System Defense Fleet. There are none, I think, who would look wrongly on your eagerness to accept a command six times the size of a little swift-ship. And you have more than proven that you are the sort of officer who deserves a command of greater magnitude."

  Again Freya was silent, though now thoughts came quickly to her. Horizon Warden must be a guard-ship; the ship's name had already suggested it. Guard-ships were much bigger than a swift-ship, but slow, armed for the protection of escorted vessels, not for swift scouting or lighting attack runs. There were probably a few swift-ship captains in the Central Throne Fleet who might think that taking command of a system defense fleet guard-ship was a promotion, but for most, regardless of the added rank glyphs, it would be purgatory. For herself, she had no intention of leaving her little Ice Knife for a lumbering guard-ship, tied to whatever crawling cartel scow she might be assigned to escort. Now she must find a way of declining that would not be a slight.

  "Acro-telestos, I am grateful, very grateful, for the honor implied in that datachip. But I'm a swift-ship commander, through and through; I think it would be best, for the Fleet, and for me, to stick to what I know best. I think I'll be able to serve the Hegemony best by staying a part of the Central Throne Fleet and returning to command of the Ice Knife."

  It occurred to Freya that this refusal would likely mean that she would not be allowed to stay in command of the little two-ship squadron. The Skyrunner would probably be assigned somewhere separate from the Ice Knife. The loss of that command might be a minor blemish on her service record, but on the whole it was no detriment at all to think that she would soon be free of Demi-Captain Obin Meryl.

  "Indeed," said the acro-telestos. "Well, you know best what if appropriate for a… swift-ship commander, I am sure. Indeed, not being a warship officer, I would not presume to argue with the expert opinion of one who had earned distinction at her post. However, it will be impossible for you to resume your command of the Ice Knife."

  "Impossible?"

  "I'm afraid that the Ice Knife has been assigned a new captain... an aristokratai officer on exchange service to the Central Throne Fleet from the Yuro System Defense Fleet. As you know, it's beneficial for both the Fleet and the system defense fleets to have some interchange. You will, of course, be entered into the list of detached service officers of the Central Throne Fleet here on Yuro IV while you await the inevitable eventual arrival of a Central Fleet ship." The acro-telestos' smile was perhaps a touch tinged with sadness; it could, at worst, be thousands of hours before that happened.

  Somehow, the words did not shock Freya. She ought to be shocked, a part of her mind said. But it was a calm part of her mind, and anyway it did not intrude too far; the rest of her mind saw the words as they were said, like a data feed during battle, like threat and vector plots in a VR display. It was suddenly a tactical problem; there was a threat bearing down, and somewhere there was a probable solution. Her mind raced with disciplined speed. This man, the acro-telestos, held her fate in his hand just now, and one way or another, he was an enemy, or was acting on behalf of an enemy. But perhaps he himself was not just yet an enemy. Her own patrons were too distant to have any quick effect on him here. There was a reason for all this, which she would have to ascertain. Something important. But that line of thought was for later. Now it was time to move out of the trap that had suddenly yawned open in front of her, or she would be powerless to act when the reason became clear.

  "Sir. I find myself forced to apologize for my arrogance. Might I ask you to forget and forgive my previous statement?"

  "Ah, so you find that you have some interest in the command of a guard-ship after all?"

  "Acro-telestos, I will not pretend that I aspired to such a command, but I see quite a few advantages for myself and my career that would come from commanding a more substantial unit. And I would not forget your kindness in taking note of my actions and making this reward available."

  "Indeed. Well, this datachip is up to date and quite ready. Your authentication codes will compete the warrant." A delicate hand reached out to hand her the chip with a courtly gesture.

  Freya took the chip and slipped it into her own data unit on her wrist. A string of commands sent through the interface and it was done. She was no longer captain of the Ice Knife. That fact twisted something in her, but she accepted it. It was battle damage, and the battle was not over yet. She was now, on behalf of the Yuro System Defense Fleet, the Hegemony of Suns and Hegemon thereof, the captain of the guard-ship Horizon Warden.

  Leaving the estate was a rapid-fire series of small events that did not fully impinge on Freya's mind: disconnected flashes of sounds and images as she tried to work out the "whys" of what had just happened, and what she would do next. The acro-telestos had been gracious, of course. He had just won a small measure of her loyalty with his patronage, and his warm farewell showed that he was keenly aware of it. He was wrong, of course, but there would be time for that later, if ever. There was a Yuro System Defense Fleet aircar waiting for her on the landing apron at the foot of the residence compound. A different vehicle than the one she had been brought here in; a little "skimmer," smaller, unarmed and of an older model, but very likely faster. Its driver, in a duty jumpsuit, was waiting by the open door, his face hidden by the shadow of his cap's brim. The sun was a brilliant ruby in the violet sky. Its reddish light, scattered blue through the atmosphere, played subtle tricks on her eyes. She did not recognize the driver till he returned her offhand salute.

  "Muir! What in the Suns
are you doing here? Why aren't you on Ice Knife?"

  11

  Nas Killick, captain of the Brotherhood ship Whisperknife, was a man known to be dangerous by other dangerous men. His crew was among the best of the Brotherhoods, the loose family-and-syndicate organization that outsiders called "void-runners." His ship was one of the few "dedicated" warships of the syndicate that funded it, put together by skilled engineers from the parts of four other ships, crafted to be as true to the concept of a swift-ship as possible, and far more dangerous than the usual void-runner ships; mere merchant hulls wired with hot rod drives and overloaded with tacked on weapons. His own lethality in a fight was well known among the Brotherhoods. Few chose to cross him. None did so lightly.

  All that, Nas reflected, made scant difference now. Nas Killick was a man who hated helplessness, in himself and in others. The helpless, he had learned, were victims who asked for their own victimization, like a prey animal that trailed blood in front of a predator. The helpless got themselves what they deserved.

  Yet, here he was, seated in his place of greatest power, on the bridge of his deadly Whisperknife, and he was helpless to aid his crew as they carried out his orders in the face of danger. It galled him, and though he had enough self-control that none of this showed on his face, even so the crewmembers who stayed behind with him could read his posture well enough to leave a bubble of silence about him.

  Whisperknife hung motionless in the vast blackness of space, high in orbit over a gas world of vibrant orange and yellow. Everything that could be powered down and still leave the ship ready to act was powered down. Even the interior lights were dimmed, though that saved so little power as to be meaningless. It reminded the crew of what was going on, though, and that had a solid value to it, Nas thought. It wasn't so much that Whisperknife was hiding, rather that she was hiding what she was.

  Conveniently "below" the ship was a tiny moonlet of the gas giant, giving them a "stationary" orbital position and shielding the Whisperknife from some of the eyes that ought not see her. Far "below" hung the city-in-space of the Jyu-Lau Orbital Anchorage. The huge space station looked something like a section of some spiked desert plant, with docking spokes radiating out from the huge central cylinder. The entire enormous structure was alive with lights and activity. Whisperknife's passive sensors could see dozens of shuttles darting back and forth between the station and the huge transport ships that orbited with it; big as those mega-transports were, the station dwarfed them. Smaller ships, though still much bigger than his Whisperknife, docked with the spokes, transferring cargo directly to freight elevators that screamed up from and back down to the cylindrical hub of the station. Ships not much different in size than his own were served by internal docking bays, allowing them to be loaded and unloaded, repaired and refitted, in pressurized bays. The hub itself was a major city, part under spin gravity, part zero-gee, thriving on the trade and commerce of hundreds of ships, arriving, waiting, departing.

  Or being repaired. One ship moored at the end of one of the docking spokes was far larger than most that actually docked with the station. Her size meant that she blocked off the ends of two other spokes besides the one she was docked at; that would triple her docking costs, not a small matter. But then, there was no choice. The huge freight-liner was desperately in need of repairs. Half of her drive radiators were obviously a jury rig. So was the lone cluster of sensor masts. Wide swaths of her hull surface showed evidence of thermal damage, and in places there were ragged gashes patched over with silvery metal, but obviously not fully repaired. All about the ship were small portable work-shacks. Repair pods were crawling over her hull like healing insects. She was the Ulia's Flower, his intended target.

  For a moment he wished he could simply unleash his Whisperknife against the target ship, but that was a foolish notion; the huge station's defenses would be able to intercept any attack his ship could make.

  Instead, somewhere aboard that station a dozen of his best crew were moving towards the Ulia's Flower. It had taken more than a hundred hours to scout out the Jyu-Lau station. His scouts, two of his best, had arrived on a scheduled commercial liner, unarmed, indistinguishable from the unregulated flow of Hegemony population that passed through the station. They had looked, asked, noted, and then, finding things acceptable, had sent a brief innocuous signal by regularly scheduled courier. Next, the rest of his team had arrived, also aboard a commercial ship, a tramp freighter that had sold the ten of them passage from a nearby system. The little ship had paid no attention to the Whisperknife, shadowing her from an adequate distance; the swift-ship was just another small ship on a common flight path. This team brought smuggled weapons (the scouts having determined that it was easier to smuggle them in than to buy them on-station) and tools.

  Now his infiltration team was at work, somewhere inside the anchorage, and more than just about anything Nas wished he was with them. He trusted his people, as far as he trusted anyone; too little trust was a dangerous trap, one that killed many powerful men among the Brotherhoods. It was only slightly less dangerous than trusting too much. It was not lack of trust that made Nas wish himself with his team; it was... maybe pride, he mused, maybe just a reasonable concern for the wellbeing of his crew. He had forged this crew, gathering them from cast-offs, from failures, from void-runner scum that lived down to the worst stereotypes. He had made them into something better. And it galled him to send them into possible danger, and not be there to make sure things went well.

  Not that they needed his help, this time. And without a doubt, unless things went perfectly, the Whisperknife needed her captain aboard. This train of thought was pointless, he thought, and with practiced will silenced the internal debate.

  His infiltrators would have already gotten dock jobs working near the target ship, maybe even aboard her. The plan would already be in motion. He smiled, suddenly. Maybe the reason he wanted to be there was simply to watch his well honed crew in action.

  Dock Supervisor Andru Sarno sighed and sank back into the soft hotel bed; nicer than his own bed, he mused, and so much better company. The girl was lying next to him, her breathing still coming fast. Such a girl! He had never had a Modified lover before. Girls that were into massive body alteration were usually not into guys like him. This girl, though! She was seriously body-altered; hard core. Her entire body was covered in sleek soft fur and the lines of her face had been carefully altered to hint at a feline. Cat eyes and cat ears, too. The changes were beyond just exotic, but the effect was not at all grotesque; the girl was beautiful and exciting. He was still not sure why she had chosen to dance with him, but her movements in the zero-gee dance tank had been as intoxicating as her looks. Syndra, she said her name was, in a voice with the slightest hint of purring.

  Syndra had been... amazing. Just amazing. He had never before had such an exciting lover. He felt totally drained, he thought, smiling softly at the implied joke. His hand reached out to stroke her side, running along soft fur to cup her breast. She purred, actually purred, and rolled towards him. But fatigue was too much, just now. Her tongue traced across his lips, but all he could do was smile... and sleep.

  Asleep. The boy was asleep, thought "Syndra." About time. She had selected him quite carefully; she always did. Mixing business and pleasure was a specialty for her. Her real name was Ylayn Dajo, but that name was in a lot of data systems with a hefty capture bounty tagged to it. But to her knowledge, none of those data systems had her genetic code, and the descriptions and pictures that existed were all out of date by at least one cosmetic re-sculpt. And after this job, she'd need another cosmetic re-sculpt. No fur this time; maybe an exotic skin color... yes.

  She silently rose from the bed and stretched. Not her best lover by far, but not bad. For a choice, she preferred warming the captain's bed; he was... exciting. But this young man had not been a hardship. Good looking, not too bright, and with an adequate security clearance on the work site. More or less perfect.

  And here was his data
terminal; the poor fool had actually showed it off to her, going on and on about its make and capabilities when she had briefly asked about it. If it had been a honest seduction, he likely would have lost her company right there. Actually, the data unit was a nice piece of gear. She reached for it and sat down facing away from the bed so that her temporary lover, if he woke, would take a moment to see what she was doing. Her night-adapted eyes looked over to where her bag lay, among the scatter of her scant clothes. Her weapons were there; maybe the stunner, in case he woke... but no. She had a certain professional pride in her work; the boy would not wake anytime soon. She powered up the data unit and inserted the interface cable into the implant socket at the base of her skull.

  The system was protected of course, a standard commercial security routine, but that wasn't even hard enough to be fun. Now, let's see. Personnel, yes. A few jobs to fill. There was even a slot for a food delivery caterer; perfect, a big food cart would allow both weapons and tools aboard. It was a matter of minutes to sign her teammates into jobs that would let them aboard the damaged target ship. There, done and well done. Her team would see the results of her night's work on data terminals at the hostels that served as their bases and safe-houses, and the next step of the plan would swing into action. The portable terminal's power light died as she unplugged and shut it down, placing it exactly back on in its little spot on the table... just so. Her discarded undergarments went back over it, just as they had been, and her belt had been... there. Perfect. The table looked untouched.