by Eric Thomson
Silence. Then an incredulous, “What? Shrehari? Are you insane, Dunmoore? This system is well out of range from their operating bases.”
“And yet, they’re presently FTL somewhere between Hecate’s heliopause and Raijin’s hyperlimit. I’ll ask again nicely. Who are you? This isn’t an idle question. Unless I’m convinced you’re friendlies, I see no reason to help you fight off the Shrehari. Better yet, unless you convince me you’re friendlies, I’ll assume you’re in league with the pirates who handed you the crew and passengers of a freighter by the name Kattegat Maru. And treat you like outlaws guilty of a capital crime. One kinetic strike from orbit and your control center won’t ever control anything again. The same goes for your entire satellite constellation.”
“Are you threatening me? I’m an official of the Commonwealth government, and this is a federal installation. Threats made against either are a federal crime. Your admiral won’t just be ordered to discipline you, he’ll be ordered to remove you from command and put in front of a court-martial. I’m giving you one last chance to leave. Otherwise, your career and life as you know it are over.”
“Earth and Fleet HQ are far away. I’m here, and I hold the high orbitals. The Shrehari will be here in half a standard day at most. Therefore, I doubt you’ll have a chance to make good on your threats. Let’s try this again. Who are you, and which government agency is operating in this system? You’re not Fleet. That’s for sure. Otherwise, you’d be more than happy to discuss our fighting off the Shrehari together. Besides, no one in the Fleet would deal in human flesh with a gangster like Enoc Tarrant.”
Dunmoore thought she heard a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the comlink.
“You seem remarkably well informed for a battlecruiser captain, Dunmoore. These are matters of national security and classified beyond anything you’ve ever imagined. Take care you don’t overstep your bounds any further. The consequences could go well beyond the end of your naval career.”
“Such as ending up in your stockade after an extraordinary rendition under the Navy’s nose? Perhaps I’ll finally meet the folks taken off Kattegat Maru so it wouldn’t be a total loss.”
“All right,” the man responded in a voice tinged by repressed fury. “I think you and I need to speak, privately and face-to-face before this spirals totally out of control and does immeasurable harm to the Commonwealth’s interests.”
“I agree. And for the last time, who are you?”
“My name is Blayne Hersom. I’m a senior director, the civilian equivalent of a Navy flag officer, in a classified agency reporting directly to the Secretary-General’s Office on Earth. The Hecate system is my responsibility.”
“Shall I come down, or would you prefer a tour of Iolanthe?” Dunmoore asked, though she already knew what Hersom’s answer would be.
“You’re coming here, Dunmoore. Within the hour. I’m sure you can see our landing strip. Try not to make things worse in the meantime. Temar, out.”
No one spoke for almost a minute, then Holt said, “Might I see you in your day cabin, Skipper?”
“If you intend to remind me that captains should stay in their ships and send proper landing parties into dangerous situations, Zeke, you can spare your breath. Prepare enough shuttles and gunships to land Major Salminen’s company, augmented by a platoon of Chief Dwyn’s boarding party-qualified ratings. I won’t be alone.”
“In full battle armor?”
“Of course. If Chief Guthren feels the urge to stretch his legs, he can lead the spacer platoon and be my shadow. And Zeke...”
“Sir?”
“I won’t invoke General Order Eighty-One this time. Blayne Hersom’s classified agency is the damned Special Security Bureau. There is no question about it unless the SecGen created another unsupervised secret police monster to circumvent the Senate and the Fleet. The fact they’re not only running a covert rendition site but hiring pirates to abduct innocent civilians offends me to my core. If he tries anything hostile while we’re there, he and his become the enemy. You and I will act accordingly.”
“He won’t expect you to land with a company of armored infantry. He might react in unpredictable ways.”
“I doubt Hersom has any troops capable of standing up to Major Salminen’s soldiers. His sort is only good at intimidating people already in their power.” She climbed to her feet. “Thorin, make sure you register every satellite within line of sight as a target, along with the aerospace defense pods around the stockade.”
“And the ground control center?”
“That too.” She glanced at Salminen. “Shall we?”
“I’ve already put my company on alert, sir. They’ll be ready and waiting on the hangar deck in fifteen minutes, with a full load of live ammunition and our portable crew-served weapons, in case the guard droids turn on us. I’ve yet to meet one capable of withstanding a twenty-millimeter automatic cannon.”
Dunmoore gave the soldier a knowing grin.
“That’s the spirit, Major.”
“I just have one question,” Lieutenant Commander Sirico said in a mournful tone. “Why is no one ever happy to see us when we suddenly show up on their sensors?”
— Thirty-Two —
Eight gunships, each flown by one of Iolanthe’s pilot qualified petty officers and carrying half a platoon of armored soldiers, surrounded Dunmoore’s shuttle as her flight swooped down to land on the empty strip fronting the mysterious base’s ground control center. It relieved her to note the aerospace defense pods were not tracking the craft over open sights and understood Hersom was providing further proof of his apparent goodwill in attempting to resolve the situation.
They touched down to the whine of thrusters, each seeming light as a feather under the deft touch of its pilot. Within seconds, aft ramps opened to disgorge the soldiers of E Company wearing full battle order, minus Command Sergeant Courtlyn Alekseev’s platoon which was still in Kattegat Maru.
The troopers silently dispersed to form a protective perimeter around the grounded spacecraft while Major Salminen and her company HQ remained near her command gunship. At an unheard signal, Dunmoore’s shuttle dropped its aft ramp and a naval landing party, as well armored, and armed as the soldiers, marched off in two files, scatterguns, and plasma rifles at the high port. They were led by a hulking, barrel-shaped figure wearing a chief petty officer first class’ starburst and anchors on his battlesuit’s chest plate.
The spacers came to a synchronized, crashing halt and Chief Petty Officer Guthren raised his gauntleted fist in the air telling Dunmoore’s it was safe to disembark. She appeared at the top of the ramp and paused for a few moments. Unlike her escort, she wore only battle dress, though a large bore blaster sat in an open holster at her hip.
Dunmoore did not, however, wear the Armed Services’ sky-blue beret. Instead, a naval version of the Army’s brimmed field cap covered her short copper locks. The cap gave her a more sinister, hard-edged appearance, an effect she deliberately cultivated for this meeting.
Eyes moving from side to side, Dunmoore studied her surroundings. The air temperature was above freezing, but she felt a chill nonetheless, both from the cold breeze and from the dull alien landscape bathed in the equally dull sunlight reflected by Satan’s Eye. Then, with deliberate steps, she walked down the ramp to where her escort waited in an orderly assemblage of faceless war machines.
Though she could sense life beyond the low, elongated control center separating the main installation from the strip, Dunmoore saw no welcoming committee. Perhaps Blayne Hersom was playing the usual, petty bureaucratic games by making her wait to show he outranked a mere Navy captain on the greasy pole of the Commonwealth government hierarchy. Dunmoore knew any uninvited attempt to enter the installation proper via the double doors facing the landing strip would meet with failure.
And so she assumed the parade rest between Guthren and Leading Spacer Vincenzo, hands clasped in the small of her back and composed herself to wait until Hersom decided
he’d drawn the game out long enough to make his point
Tatiana Salminen’s voice in her earbug broke a silence punctuated only by the sounds of the endless, chilly breeze.
“Fourteen guard droids are moving to encircle us, sir. We’re also picking up signs of armed humans accompanying them. Neither presents a threat as yet.”
Hersom making another point? Or a belated reaction to the unexpected arrival of a combat-ready infantry company?
Dunmoore nodded once, knowing Salminen was watching her, waiting for an acknowledgment.
Nothing else moved for almost ten more minutes. That they were under intense scrutiny by Hersom and his people was beyond question.
Finally, the control center doors opened, and a lone figure emerged. Lean, tall, his craggy features topped by luxuriant gray hair, the man moved with the athletic vigor of someone half his age. The confidence in his stride and his posture gave Dunmoore enough cause to conclude this could only be Blayne Hersom.
He wore an expensive, tan-colored safari suit, the kind favored by wealthy individuals who enjoyed spending astronomical fortunes hunting alien creatures on distant worlds. A tooled, brown leather gun belt and holster heightened the effect.
The man stopped a few paces in front of Dunmoore and studied her with dark, expressionless eyes. She forcibly repressed a shiver at their cold, dispassionate emptiness. Here was someone who wouldn’t know the meaning of pity, much less how to spell empathy.
“Captain Dunmoore, I presume. I’m Blayne Hersom, the senior Commonwealth government official in the Hecate system, which makes me the de facto governor.” Instead of offering his hand, as Dunmoore half-expected, he indicated the soldiers and spacers surrounding her. “A bit overwrought, wouldn’t you say? There’s no call for a display of force. We are on the same side.”
Dunmoore gave him a dismissive half shrug.
“My Marines need regular exercise, and this seemed a good occasion. The same goes for my naval landing party.”
Hersom’s expression made it clear he knew she was lying.
“Apologies for making you wait. I needed to deal with a few urgent matters before I could give you and your dire news about a Shrehari strike force my full attention. I hope my tardiness didn’t try your patience.”
“Patience isn’t thought of as a virtue in my world, Mister Hersom, or as something innate. We consider it a skill to be trained and nurtured, and I take advantage of every opportunity to better myself.”
“Commendable, I’m sure. Hopefully, your people are just as well trained in the art of exercising patience, Captain. I would prefer we don’t experience a sudden outbreak of accidental gunfire. My guard droids possess better reflexes than your best Marine and an almost unlimited supply of ammunition.”
“I trust your droids and the humans accompanying them are just as patient and equally well trained in differentiating between friend and foe. Or programmed, I suppose.”
Hersom nodded over his shoulder at the ground control building.
“I suggest we hold our discussion in my office rather than out here under the gaze of Satan’s Eye, but your escort will stay behind. We can’t countenance a hundred troopers wandering around unescorted. However, rest assured that your safety is guaranteed on Temar.”
“I never thought any differently, Mister Hersom. Of course, as is our custom, my Marines, the naval landing party, and I became expendable in the eyes of my first officer the moment we left Iolanthe, should the ship’s safety become an issue. But I will insist on bringing at least my bodyguard along with me.” She indicated Vincenzo with her thumb. “I’m sure you understand.”
Hersom’s eyes briefly slipped to the right, but the only thing he saw was the spacer’s blank visor.
“You may certainly bring your bodyguard on the condition he stays in the corridor while we talk in my office.”
She inclined her head.
“Naturally.”
“If you’ll follow me.”
Hersom turned on his heels and walked away without waiting for her acknowledgment.
After a moment’s hesitation at his abruptness, she complied, trailed by the ever faithful Vincenzo.
The building’s innards were as bland and utilitarian as those of every prefabricated outpost Dunmoore had ever visited. Closed doors with numbered plates affixed to the panels lined both sides of the broad passage.
Hersom led them up a metallic spiral staircase and along a second story corridor almost identical to the one below. He stopped by a door at the far end of the passageway.
“You may leave your escort here, Captain.”
She gave Vincenzo a nod and then preceded Hersom into a spacious and well-appointed office. He motioned toward the chair in front of a bare metallic desk.
“Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”
Dunmoore shook her head.
“Thank you, but no. I drank my quota for the day.”
Hersom served himself then took a seat and studied her over the rim of his mug with those unnerving, almost reptilian eyes.
“Your presence here is problematic on so many levels I don’t quite know where to start, Captain.”
“Why? You and I work for the same government and toward the same goals, don’t we?”
“True,” Hersom replied in a thoughtful tone. “To a certain extent. But you and I are charged with reaching those goals in very different ways. The difference is such that our paths should never have crossed and therein lies my dilemma. Why don’t you explain how you came to enter the Hecate system despite the warning buoys?”
Dunmoore expected the question and figured telling the truth about most things, save for the Shrehari, would be best when dealing with one of the Secretary-General’s secret police thugs.
“We responded to a distress signal from a freighter by the name Kattegat Maru, which was intercepted by pirates while outbound from Kilia. Unfortunately, we found only one remaining crewmember aboard, someone who escaped detection by hiding in a shielded compartment. But that individual gave us enough clues to trace the piracy and kidnapping back to one Enoc Tarrant, a mob boss who seems to own a profitable and illegal free port beyond the Commonwealth frontier. I convinced this Tarrant to tell me where his people were taking Kattegat Maru’s crew and passengers.”
Hersom’s face tightened at her words and Dunmoore thought she could see the first flicker of emotion in his eyes. Anger. Good. If she could provoke a falling out among thieves between Hersom and Tarrant, so much the better.
“From there it wasn’t difficult to deduce the Hecate system was their final destination. Imagine my surprise at discovering it was occupied by the very government that pays my salary. Tell me Mister Hersom, since when does your agency engage in kidnapping and piracy?”
“None of this concerns you, Dunmoore. Our work here is of the highest importance to national security, and I assure you everything we do is in pursuit of a single overriding aim — the survival of the Commonwealth and through it, that of humanity. You would be well advised to forget about Kattegat Maru, wipe every reference to her from your logs, and return to your patrol route forthwith. The ship’s fate and that of those who were aboard will enter history as an unexplained puzzle, and soon they will be forgotten. Any claims made by this survivor you found will be deemed pure fantasy and dismissed. Now tell me about these Shrehari. How did they get here?”
Dunmoore made a dismissive gesture.
“I don’t know. Perhaps they heard about your highly important work and figured it would be best for the Empire if you were put out of business. I dropped a surveillance buoy at the edge of the Hecate system, in accordance with standard operating procedures, and it warned me about the Shrehari’s arrival shortly before we made ourselves visible to your sensors. Because they’re the furthest thing from stupid, I can only assume the boneheads will soon discover not only the satellite constellations orbiting Raijin and Temar, but that your little home away from home is both habitable and occupied. Since this system is quarantined
, they will conclude we hairless apes are cooking up something nefarious and try to destroy your installation. But your little settlement isn’t a research and development center, is it? The Special Security Bureau doesn’t dabble in weapons development. Even the Secretary-General knows enough to leave such matters in the Fleet’s hands.”
She allowed herself a sardonic smile.
“It would be a shame if the Shrehari mistakenly massacred your prisoners.” Though Hersom’s bored expression didn’t change, there was a distinct flicker of irritation in his eyes. “This is an extraordinary rendition site, isn’t it? A place to warehouse and interrogate humans deemed enemies of the Commonwealth without going through the niceties of an arrest warrant let alone a trial. Last I checked, what you’re doing isn’t legal, even if the SecGen personally ordered it.”
“You just crossed the line into perilous territory, Dunmoore.” His tone was carefully neutral, yet it carried a dangerous edge. “Desist, walk it back, and we can both forget this happened.”
Dunmoore raised her hands, palms outward, in surrender.
“I’m not about to argue there aren’t plenty of people in the Commonwealth who imperil humanity’s future by merely existing. And as a warship captain with plenty of human and alien blood on her hands, I’m probably not one to discuss morality with you, even if I’ve never given the Special Security Bureau a warm thought. But I draw the line at abducting and detaining innocent civilians. Kattegat Maru’s crew and passengers can’t all be enemies of the Commonwealth and that being the case you have no business with them. I’ll tell you how we can walk this back and forget Iolanthe ever came near the Hecate system. Hand them over. I will restore them to their ship, and we could treat this as a piracy operation thwarted by the Navy. Your agency’s name need never come up. And if you want to help me assuage my conscience, so I can also forget any of this happened, tell me why.”
“What makes you think you can bargain with me, Dunmoore?”