by Eric Thomson
“Because it’s illegal, the cadres are perforce hired from less than savory sources, such as through Enoc Tarrant’s web of interests, and they operate virtually unsupervised. Thugs, mercenaries, mobsters, if not worse. As you might imagine, the conditions in those settlements are not far removed from penal or slave colonies. The law is whatever the local boss says. Even worse, this has affected the existing settlements. Not content to just run their open-air prisons, several deportee camp managers are forcing their rule on free communities with the help of well-armed mercenary troops. And, of course, the original colonists can’t compete with an indentured labor force, and that means precarious economies are becoming even further impoverished.”
“Hang on for a moment,” Holt said. “Are you telling me humans are actively practicing slavery in the Zone, or the closest thing to it? With the connivance of Commonwealth star system governments desirous to be rid of their inconvenient citizens? How is that even possible?”
A sad smile crossed Forenza’s lips.
“I should imagine some senators and highly placed federal officials are either closing their eyes or actively helping. Then there’s the SSB, a law unto itself, which seems involved, and that means persons in the Secretary-General’s office itself have given their sanction to this scheme.” He noticed the barely repressed rage in Dunmoore’s gray eyes and gave her a sympathetic nod. “That was my reaction as well when I figured it out, Captain. And I almost took my knowledge to the grave.”
Silence descended on Dunmoore’s day cabin as she and Holt digested Forenza’s revelations. Finally, the first officer asked, “What can the Colonial Office do about this, if highly placed federal officials and the damned SSB are involved?”
“My superiors have several options, Commander. You understand that making the matter public in a time of interstellar war might not be advisable if only for civilian morale.” When he saw Holt open his mouth to voice an angry retort, Forenza added, “We will eventually put an end to the deportations, and it wouldn’t surprise me if my superiors asked for the Navy’s help.”
“Send in the Marines,” Holt growled. “They’ll make short work of the slave-running thugs.”
“A possibility, yes. But keep in mind the most effective remedy is one that won’t force those high-placed federal officials to act against us in a fit of self-preservation. And that means no public trials, let alone executions.”
“Why wait for a face-saving remedy? How about drumhead courts-martial for the bad actors in the Zone, followed by a quick visit from the friendly neighborhood firing squad after we liberate the camps?” Holt gestured at Dunmoore. “I’m sure we can find a set of drums for the captain and form a dozen volunteer firing squads from our embarked Scandian soldiers. Then your lot can concentrate on ending the deportations and not worry about the bureaucratic infighting that would accompany any hint of the Colonial Office becoming officially responsible for a bunch of outlaw settlements.”
“How about we don’t get ahead of ourselves?” Dunmoore replied. “Our immediate mission is to recover Kattegat Maru’s crew and deliver them, along with the passengers, Ser Forenza, and Skelly Kursu’s bunch to the nearest starbase. Then, as you might recall, Zeke, we received orders to join our new task force. I’ve stretched my excuse of hot pursuit to the limit as it is. Cleaning up the Unclaimed Zone, even under the aegis of anti-slavery, won’t happen just yet. Let the Colonial Office do its job while we do ours, which is to kick the boneheads out of our space.”
“You forget something, Skipper.”
Dunmoore cocked a skeptical eyebrow at Holt.
“Oh? What?”
“If Baba Yaga isn’t here, then she must be on her way to a place where the captain can profitably dispose of two dozen embarrassing, albeit technically trained humans. Somewhere either operated by Enoc Tarrant or by someone who gives him a taste of the profits.”
“The commander has a point, Captain. Those involuntary colonist settlements would find experienced people such as a starship crew invaluable compared to most of the deportees, a wide swath of whom are functionally illiterate and only marginally employable. I’m sorry. I should have thought of it before.”
“You figure we’ll find them on Cullan?”
“Perhaps, but it’s not the only destination within a reasonable distance.”
“Then we still need Tarrant to tell us where his ship went.”
“And if it’s Cullan,” Holt said with a piratical grin, “Ser Forenza can show us where we might do a little labor camp liberation along the way.”
— Forty-Five —
“The Growlers are ready,” Commander Renny Halfen announced in a matter-of-fact tone as he entered the wardroom, eyes on the coffee urn. Dunmoore and Holt were the only officers present, taking their meal well after everyone else as usual. “And I need a cup of java that doesn’t reek of reactor fuel drippings.”
“Gave up on teaching the engineering crew how to make a non-toxic brew?” Holt asked around a mouthful of chicken curry.
“It’s not that they don’t know.” He filled his mug and took an appreciative sip. “It’s that they don’t want to. Not a working taste bud to spare among them. At least for coffee.”
“Tell me about our Growlers?” Dunmoore asked, checking the time. Nine hours had elapsed since she gave the order. Renny Halfen was running true to form.
The engineer dropped into a chair at their table and sighed.
“I filled most of the aft compartments with spare batteries because their reactors can’t produce enough power for holograms that’ll fool anyone watching. And even then, they won’t be full size, nor will you get much over thirty minutes before the solar wind blows them away. And that’s optimistic. One heavy burst of radiation passing over us, and you’ll be seeing two wee shuttles instead of Voivode class frigates. The holographic projectors we carry aren’t designed to work out where it’s nasty and definitely not while trying to keep a huge image stable. In any case, I made enough modifications to be censured by the Chief of Naval Engineering, if that worthy personage ever finds out.”
“Thank you, Renny. I’m pretty sure thirty minutes will be more than enough. If we can’t convince Enoc Tarrant to speak and the Shrehari to keep hiding in the first ten minutes, then we never will.”
“That long?” A smirk twisted Holt’s lips. “Remember who’ll do the talking.”
“Are you laying down a challenge, Ezekiel?” Halfen asked. “Shall we run a wager? Or a betting pool? I’m sure I could find plenty of takers.”
“There is to be no gambling in my ship.”
An impish expression replaced Holt’s smirk.
“Aren’t most of our operations a gamble, Skipper?”
“Aye.” Halfen nodded enthusiastically. “And that makes you the biggest gambler of all, sir.”
“Since we’re on the subject,” Holt continued, unrepentant, “when do you intend to roll the dice? Emma can turn Kattegat Maru into the Commonwealth Star Ship Eyvind at any time and now that the Growlers are ready, there’s no point in waiting. Besides, we should run this gamble from beyond Kilia’s effective weapons range, lest they land a salvo on our pretend Voivodes and collapse the illusion.”
Dunmoore swallowed the last bit of her chicken, wiped her lips, and stood.
“We go to battle stations in fifteen minutes and launch the Growlers. Once they’re in position, Mister Holt or should I say Captain Larkin, you may order our private iteration of Task Force Luckner to go up systems and then prove your silver tongue hasn’t tarnished through disuse.”
**
“Wow.” Lieutenant Commander Sirico let out an appreciative whistle. “If I didn’t know they were holograms projected by a pair of standard-issue Growlers, I’d be wondering how those frigates snuck up on us undetected.”
“The emissions are certainly convincing. Kattegat Maru’s not doing too shabby as a pretend corvette either,” Chief Petty Officer Yens said. “Those three, plus the Furious Faerie in full battlecruiser
mode ought to wake up the bonehead-loving scumbags on Kilia.”
“And the boneheads we’re pretending not to see at Kilia’s trailing Lagrangian.”
Well done, Renny and Yulia! Dunmoore mentally congratulated her chief engineer and his assistant, the latter having transformed Kattegat Maru into a convincing Eyvind as her beacon now proclaimed.
“How does it feel to command the better part of a modern task force?” Holt’s hologram asked.
“Like a game of Eridani Hold’em where my two hole cards are brown dwarfs. Besides, you’re in charge, remember?”
“I’m only the talking head, Skipper, but those captain’s stripes on my collar sure feel nice.” A pause. “And it looks as if I’m about to go on stage. Kilia is calling, and judging by the tone, they’re feeling slightly alarmed.”
“Now entering stage left, Captain Ezekiel Larkin, Commonwealth Navy. Knock ‘em dead, Zeke.”
A split view replaced the star field on the CIC’s main display as the bridge signals petty officer established a link with Kilia. Her first officer, in Navy battledress with one of Dunmoore’s spare rank insignia on the collar filled one side, while Enoc Tarrant swarthy face, twisted into a mask of displeasure, filled the other.
“I’m Captain Ezekiel Larkin of the battlecruiser Iolanthe, acting commodore of Task Force Luckner. And you are?”
Holt’s languid tone verged on a patrician arrogance designed to irritate.
“Enoc Tarrant. I run Kilia Station. Why are you here, Captain? This sector isn’t under Commonwealth jurisdiction. We’re neutrals and generally don’t permit warships from belligerent polities to enter our space.”
“Don’t permit?” Holt’s derisive laughter echoed across the CIC. “And you enforce this rule with what, precisely? The only ships I see wouldn’t survive more than a single salvo from mine.”
“With my ground-based ordnance, Captain. I’m sure you’re scanning Kilia’s surface right now. We can make any attempt at attacking us prohibitively expensive.”
“I suppose that’s why four Shrehari warships are trying and failing to stay invisible near your L5 point? So much for not welcoming belligerents.”
Tarrant’s eyes narrowed, though his lids did little to mask the ire blazing in them.
“My dealings are none of your concern.”
“But they are, my good man. I am commanded to hunt and destroy the enemies of the Commonwealth, and what do you know? I find four Shrehari ships and a nest of traitors to humanity. It’s a target-rich environment if I’ve ever seen one. As to your ground-based ordnance, best not hide behind illusions. Sustained fire by my four ships will make quick work of your shields since you can’t maneuver. After that?” Holt shrugged. “A few well-placed nuclear warheads slamming into Kilia’s crust and that’ll be the end of your criminal enterprise. I know, using nukes on populated places is technically forbidden, but since you claim independence from the rest of humanity, expecting me to care about such niceties would be futile.”
He let his words sink in before continuing.
“However, today is your lucky day, Ser Tarrant. I’m on a mission that overrides my desire to destroy the filth arrayed before me. Cooperate, and I’ll let your little den of thieves live. Otherwise...”
“What do you want?” Tarrant asked in a tight voice.
“You hold people I’m charged with recovering. Captain Aurelia Fennon and twenty-four of her crewmembers.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Come now, your ships attacked Kattegat Maru and took everyone off. A letter of marque who turned the matter over to the Navy recovered it. You might recall the privateer’s captain, Shannon O’Donnell. A strange woman, remarkably ruthless on occasion and probably a bit of a sociopath in the bargain. Thanks to her information, we retrieved the passengers who traveled in Kattegat Maru, but our intelligence indicates one of your ships, Baba Yaga, is carrying Captain Fennon and her people.”
“Still not following you, Captain. I hold shares in a ship by the name Baba Yaga. But she’s not here right now. This Fennon however, is unknown to anyone in my employ.”
“Shame.” Holt’s lips drooped in a display of disappointment.
“Why is it a shame?”
“Since you refuse to tell me where we can find Kattegat Maru’s crew, I shall end your tenancy of this star system.” Holt’s head turned to one side. “Gunnery officer, please tell the task force to lock on and prepare for the opening salvo.”
“Wait just a moment, Captain. There are thousands of sentient beings in Kilia. You’d condemn them to death for the sake of two dozen space rats?”
Holt rolled his single eye.
“Not another damned utilitarian. The needs of the many and all that garbage? I don’t give a flying fuck about your station or the soon-to-be crispy critters therein. You’re a thug surrounded by thuglets and therefore no loss whatsoever to our species. I won’t even mention how much better the universe will be without the boneheads you harbor. My sole mission is to recover Fennon and company, with no restrictions set on the level of collateral damage I can inflict out here, beyond the limits of the Commonwealth sphere. Now decide. Tell me where I can find Fennon and live, or prepare to die along with everyone else cowering in that rock you call home.”
**
“By the dark gods, what is this fresh example of our damnation?” Brakal growled as he studied the four human warships that suddenly appeared on Tol Vehar’s sensors, just beyond weapons range. “How did they come so close with no one noticing?”
“Lord, the largest of the four, a battleship, is the same one we fought in the Hecate system. The next largest ships appear to be from what we believe are the newest cruisers of their warlord class, what they call frigates,” he used the Anglic word. “The other is a corvette. According to the latest intelligence, the human warlord class cruisers are fresh off the slipways and more than a match for our Tol class.” Menak pointed at a side display where human text shimmered brightly. “They broadcast their identities.”
Brakal rubbed his chin with a leathery paw and grunted. Three capital ships and an escort, including the one that already drove him to withdraw. The odds were not in the Empire’s favor. As much as it pained his warrior’s soul, there would be no honor in attacking the human formation. It outgunned him ship-for-ship, and that meant this was not a good day to die.
“Lord, the humans speak with Kilia.”
“Can we intercept their communication?”
“They take no pains to hide it.”
“Show me.”
Perhaps he would finally see who ambushed him near the human-occupied moon named Temar.
The image of a pale human male with one eye materialized along with that of the vile, untrustworthy hairless ape ruling Kilia. Regar’s Tai Kan colleagues had regaled the spy with many tales of doings within that hollowed-out rock, each worse than the other while Brakal waited for the ghost to reappear.
In turn, Regar recounted them to his commanding officer over many cups of freshly brewed tvass. Brakal no longer wondered why the Tai Kan considered Kilia such a fertile hunting ground for information and a superb base of operations for their pretend-corsair missions.
The human male was unknown to him, and he realized with a pang he had hoped to see the flame-haired she-wolf, Dunmoore. But then he believed his old foe to command the ghost, and this was a different ship. A real warship.
Though their speech remained unintelligible to his ears, a haphazard translation scrolled past on a nearby side display. The pale human was on a quest to find members of his species who disappeared and held the despicable serpent ruling Kilia responsible, something the latter denied. And now the human was threatening to destroy Kilia. How strange. No subject of the Shrehari Empire, even one living beyond its bounds, would dare refuse a senior officer of the Deep Space Fleet.
“Lord.”
The sensor officer’s voice drove away his thoughts.
“What is it, Menak?”<
br />
“Something about the two warlord class cruisers, Jan Sobieski and Charles Martel, appears disturbingly strange.” He massacred the human names with the usual Shrehari gutturals.
“How so?”
Brakal’s black in black eyes turned to the main display now showing one of the ships in question.
“We are detecting the expected emissions from something that size, but the visuals seem to blur here and there, in random blotches.”
“Defective equipment? Solar wind interference?”
“Perhaps, but an uneasy feeling is eating at my guts, Lord. Might I suggest you contemplate allowing me to scan with active sensors? If the passive sensors are defective or experiencing interference from natural radiation, we would know.”
“Suggestion noted. Not yet.”
Brakal sat back in his chair, knowing Urag, quietly watching him from his own seat at the center of the bridge, would recommend caution in the face of superior enemy strength. As he studied the image, a sense of unease enveloped him too. What was wrong with those cruisers that tickled his instincts?
— Forty-Six —
Dunmoore, fascinated by the verbal standoff between her amusingly arrogant first officer and an increasingly irritated Tarrant almost missed the subtle flash of an incoming call on the screen embedded in her command chair’s arm. She glanced down and frowned. Renny Halfen wouldn’t call her in the middle of the action unless something was about to go wrong. Dunmoore touched the panel.
“Tell me it’s good news, Renny.”
Halfen grimaced.
“Sorry, Captain. You won’t get the thirty minutes I promised. Jan Sobieski’s holographic projection is degrading fast. The emitter just isn’t strong enough to keep fighting the solar wind.”