43 Days to Oblivion (The Jolo Vargas Space Opera Series Book 2)

by J. D. Oppenheim

  Jolo couldn’t speak. What was there to say? The crewman and the woman pretty much had him pegged and he couldn’t get over it. Just like Marco would say, Jolo thought, it is what it is. Finally Katy broke the silence.

  “Okay. What’s up?,” she said to Jolo, who was slumped in his chair on the bridge. “You look like your dog died.”

  “I’m fine,” was all he could muster.

  “Aww, he’s wounded,” said Greeley.

  “Wounded!” yelled Katy, and started squeezing Jolo with her hands, starting at his shoulders, moving down his arms, patting him like a medic searching for broken bones.

  “Naw. Here,” said Greeley, pointing to his chest.

  “I’m fine!” yelled Jolo. “Now let’s stash the goods and get gone. The Argossy needs repairs.”

  Katy gave Greeley a questioning look.

  “A snooty Fed woman kept callin’ him a synth and hinted he didn’t have the requisite parts,” he said.

  “What?” said Katy.

  “You know. A tool, a thing. A wanky wank,” he said.

  “Wanky wank? Why would she say that?” and then she paused. “Wait,” Katy looked at Jolo, “You got one, right?”

  Jolo just shook his head and started for the storage bay.

  That night Bertha had a celebration under the stars. The air was cool and dry and Jolo sat with Katy and Bertha on the long porch steps of the big house. Hurley, Koba and George built a bonfire and Bertha’s crew set up tables. Everyone who lived with Bertha had chores to do and the kitchen crew was especially busy that night.

  Jolo stared off into the big fire, skinny kids running and dancing around it, happy and free. They didn’t know about the food shortage, didn’t know that they’d soon be eating Federation rations stolen by a notorious pirate. Jolo and the crew stashed the crates in several hidey holes close to the house, buried deep enough to avoid detection by a scan, even at close range.

  The kids had split into two groups: a bunch of tall boys were the BG and the smaller kids were the pirates. They had mock battles and the big kids usually came out on top. Through all of it, Jolo kept hearing his name being called by the leader of the pirates. Finally, after another defeat, one of the little boys ran up and grabbed Jolo’s hand.

  “Help us, Cap’n Jolo,” he said, pulling on his arm. Jolo looked at Katy.

  “Get out there and save us, Captain,” she said. So the battle started again, but this time the good guys had a secret weapon and when the BG boys came on the attack there was Jolo Vargas and his crew of mini-pirates waiting. Jolo wondered just how the pretend battle would go down. He stood there for a moment in thought, a serious look on his face, realizing his force was heavily out-manned. Then Katy yelled at him: “Smile and pretend you are having fun!”

  So he smiled real big, at which point the BG boys stepped back. “The smile doesn’t work,” he yelled back to Katy.

  “That’s because your fake-ass smile is a little scary,” said Katy, laughing.

  And then Jolo pretended to pull out his gun, which was actually his finger, and he charged, followed by a wave of little kids. This time the BG force fell away, ending up in a big pile of yelling, laughing, raucous kids. Somehow Jolo ended up in the dirt under a mountain of giggling arms and legs and dirty little feet. They immediately jumped off of him and grabbed him and demanded another battle. “Let’s do it again, Captain Jolo!” they screamed. They played again and again, Jolo sometimes a BG warrior, sometimes a Fed captain. The best part to play for the kids was that of Jolo Vargas, usually played by one of the big boys. In the end Jolo was surrounded by a hundred little pirates and he was playing the unfortunate role of the BG Emperor, who fell in fierce combat after delivering heavy losses to the pirates led by a skinny, younger version of himself.

  When the food was ready Jolo stumbled back onto the porch feeling much better than he had in a long time. Katy and Bertha were smiling at him and he was grinning.

  “Now, that’s an authentic smile, Captain,” said Bertha. Katy put her arm around him and for a moment he felt lighter, like maybe this is how normal people felt.

  Pretty soon a little girl came with a big plate of food. “Cap’n Jolo,” she said. “Thank you for your help.” And everyone around started clapping. The rest of the crew were served next and everyone enjoyed the last of the vegetables they’d harvested before the crops were destroyed.

  “Do you feel it?” said Katy. “They love you.”

  Jolo looked at her. “They don’t know what I am.”

  “Most do. And they don’t care.”

  “It’s not what you are, it’s what you do that counts,” said Bertha. “These people are precious to me. And I trust you with them. I know you would never let us down.”

  That night Jolo lay in bed but still couldn’t get the day out of his mind. He kept thinking about the woman in the blue dress. Why did he care what she or the crewman or anyone from the Fed thought? And then his mind turned to the BG boat. Why had it attacked? What could they gain? Was this the start of the war between the BG and the Fed?

  ……

  The next morning George woke up Jolo before light. “Captain, I just got a message from the network.” The network was a loose intruder warning system that covered most of the planet Duval. Each node was responsible for watching several square kilometers and reported any BG or Fed boats entering the atmosphere. Bertha’s house was a node on the northern end and Marco’s was the southernmost node in the net. The system was based on old radio tech and never went down. Radios were easy to find and would usually run forever, and most were solar powered so energy to run them was not an issue either.

  “What’s up?” said Jolo.

  “A BG boat set down about 100 kilo’s north of here.”

  “Another listening station?”

  “I don’t know. You wanna check it out?”

  Computer, Jolo thought, how far apart do listening stations need to be on a planet the size of Duval?

  Given a similar mass and density and a radius of no more than 6,358.2 kilometers, each listening point should cover 500 square kilometers.

  “It can’t be a listening station. It’s too close to the one they just made,” said Jolo.

  “That is correct,” said George.

  “I’ll go alone, there’s a water reclamator not too far from there. I’ll bring some tools and pretend to be doing maintenance.”

  It was still dark in the big house and Jolo went to the kitchen for coffee. Bertha and Katy were already there. Katy had her boots on and her rucksack, round and full, was sitting on the table.

  “Taking a trip?” said Jolo.

  “Yep. Thought we could do some sightseeing.”

  “Okay,” Jolo said. “You come with me. The rest of the crew stays here just in case. We need to make sure that BG boat ain’t a threat before we leave.”

  So Jolo and Katy headed north into the gray early light of day on one of Bertha’s hover bikes. The morning was cool and Jolo thought to make good time. It was mostly a flat stretch of cracked clay and the bike would get them there in under an hour. There were several hills he had to navigate around first, then they dropped into the long straight stretch of red clay that Duval was famous for and he fully engaged the mini-Quarton 4 thrusters and the bike leapt forward. Katy, who sat behind him, wrapped her arms around him tightly when the bike gained speed.

  “Hang on,” he said over the comm. “I’m going to make time.”

  “Roger that.”

  Jolo pushed the bike even harder, the Quartons’ high-pitched whine mixed with the rush of wind. Katy pressed her body even closer to his and for the second time since he came to Bertha’s he had to smile. Feeling her close to him gave him a deep sense of calm and happiness he hadn’t felt in a long time. Maybe this was some memory from his former self. He wished the reclamators were five hours away instead of just one.

  Fifty-three minutes later Jolo saw the long line of shiny reclamators come into view. They stopped and Jolo quickly sprea
d out the tools on the dry ground and opened up one of the inlet valves and brown water trickled out. Then he disassembled the water catch and lay it on the ground. They had to make it look good, like this is what they were actually doing. The big, black BG boat loomed in the distance. Jolo could see it clearly about 75 meters away.

  Jolo was about to crawl under one of the reclamators when Katy squatted down next to him, the large water catch offering a bit of shade. “Why were you so down last night?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who cares what those Fed bastards think. It’s all propaganda anyway.”

  “Is it?”

  “Do I really have to answer that?”

  “At night sometimes I dream about Barthelme. He gave his life for me and now he’s on some prison planet and unless there’s another Leviathan floating around in space we could steal, I don’t see how I could grab him. He gave his life for me, for what? We took out a synth production facility.”

  “We got Merthon. And we know the BG are dirty as hell.”

  “Yeah, but the Fed won’t listen to me. Or Merthon.”

  “Let them rot.”

  And then Jolo got quiet for a moment. The wind kicked up and they were showered in red clay dust.

  “On the way back home,” said Jolo, “I want to check on the freighter. If those two are alive I want to pick them up. We should have taken them yesterday.”

  “You may not like what you find.”

  “There’s another reason. I want to know why a BG boat would attack a freighter. If the freighter survivors won’t tell us then maybe we can get the manifest from the onboard computer. Now let’s get to work.”

  So while Jolo queried his computer for the Frixon Corp. CoolFresh 2000 water claimer repair manual, Katy hid between two large water catchers and scoped out the BG operation with the binoculars.

  “What do you see,” said Jolo.

  “The boat ain’t a cruiser. It’s a transport. The structure looks like a listening station, but maybe bigger, taller. They got about five workers, two warriors, a few drones. And one other… it’s blocked.” She squinted, dust blowing into her eyes. She zoomed in as close as she could and started recording. At one point a worker moved out of the way and she had a clearer view. “Holy shite!” She screamed, stepping back away from the reclamators.

  Jolo scrambled out from under the water catch. “That one actually had a clogged check valve,” he said. And then he looked at Katy. She had that look, kind of like when they boarded the Corsair. Right before the shit hit the fan. “What? What is it? What’d you see?”

  “Nothing. Let’s go now. I got the vid.” And she started cleaning up the tools. The job was done.

  “Give me the binoc’s,” said Jolo.

  “No.”

  “That’s an order!” he yelled, glancing over towards the BG transport.

  “Please Jolo. Let’s just go,” Katy said. Jolo held out his hand and she gave up the binoculars. Jolo took a look and it was just like Katy said: bots, warriors, transport ship. But then he spotted a thin, athletic female figure in all black with long blond hair. She was running the show, ordering the bots around. The two warriors there for protection only. Jolo took a deep breath and shook his head. Her hair color was so blond it was almost white, but there was no question: it was a Jaylen.

  He wasn’t sure what to feel. She was beautiful, but he knew what she was and what she was capable of. He looked over at Katy, still throwing tools back into the box on the side of the hover bike, thin legs and brown hair past her shoulders. Katy is real and has a beauty all her own, he thought. She cares about the crew, and me.

  And so his mind shifted a little. “Wish I had a long-range weapon,” he said, staring back out towards the blond girl and the big, black ship.

  “Don’t waste your time,” Katy said. “There’s more of her than you got bullets for.”

  Jolo had to agree. It was time to go. “Let’s high tail it. I don’t want us being here to put Bertha and her bunch in danger,” said Jolo.

  He handed the binoculars back to Katy and she took one last look. The Jaylen was running towards them. “She’s coming!” screamed Katy.

  “Relax,” said Jolo. “She may not know me. If she recognizes me, I’ll take her out and we run. If not, we play it cool.”

  “Jolo, she’s seen us both. This one may not recognize me, but if she scans your face, she will know.”

  The synth Jaylen covered the ground amazingly fast, but when she got there she wasn’t breathing hard at all. “Why are you here?” she said. Jolo was under the reclamator again yelling at Katy to hand him a 15mm spanner. “We ain’t got time for your BG shite,” said Jolo. “This one’s got a bad valve.”

  “I want you gone in ten minutes or I’ll blow this rusty pile of junk to the heavens,” she said and turned and headed back to the work crew.

  Jolo and Katy were gone in five.

  Filcher

  On the Federation Warship Defender near the Calamar system

  Admiral Silas Filcher of the Federation Warship Defender took another sip of coffee and rubbed his temples. He checked the time: 9:32 am. There was too much to do. He had command of over 2000 able-bodied crewmen aboard and the biggest guns the Fed engineers could make, yet instead of battling against pirates attacking the merchant haulers, and until recently, the BG, his life had boiled down to a list of administrative tasks. Since the BG alliance the military had grown complacent. Not long ago there were Fed recon ships reaching as far as Frixion in the outer reaches, and gunboats patrolling all of the shipping lanes, but orders had come down that the military pull back to protect core planets only. Our new friends, the Bakanhe Grana, could deal with the outer planets and protect the commerce routes that carried supplies vital to the fringes. The Federation even started decommissioning old, but still viable, warships. A year after the order the force was weak and withdrawn.

  Filcher remembered those moments from not too long ago when a BG boat was trying to kill him and his crew and his mouth tasted like metal and his skin had gone cold and only afterwards could he truly breath again. It was then he felt alive. Now, number three on the list was the selection of dinnerware for a diplomat coming a week later. Someone’s gonna get shitcanned for that, he thought.

  But he caught himself right there. He’d forgotten. He wouldn’t be worried about administrative tasks for much longer. His life had become so routine it was sometimes easy to let it fall to the back of his mind. This is all for the greater good, the President had said many times. The wingnuts in the bowels of the Fed Intel building on Sol, down in the lowest levels where the great minds got together, had crunched the numbers. The computer models didn’t lie. They’d factored everything in. He was an Admiral, what did he know?

  All for the greater good. He reached into his jacket pocket, opened a small flask and took a few long pulls. He slid the flask back and his hands brushed against his Fed issue hand gun. His fingers found the handle and he eased it out of its holster. There was no barrel like the ancient weapons from Old Earth, this gun spit out an energy charge that could take down a large man, even a BG warrior if you hit him just right.

  He closed his eyes. 2000 people aboard, plus another half the fleet under his command. Suddenly he wished he’d never risen to admiral. Never had known what he knows now. He’d have preferred to die like a military man, in battle, fighting.

  He opened his desk drawer and stared at a picture of himself when he was #2 on the Fed gunboat Jessica. Times were simpler then. The gunboat was a wonderful weapon. Efficient and deadly. The Defender was the finest ship the Federation had yet produced, but it was larger, too many people, too much red tape.

  It wasn’t that long ago, but he felt older. He stared at his younger self: fresh faced and clean shaven. And right in the middle, standing next to him, was Captain Jolo Vargas. He had an easy smile and never seemed to be rattled, never seemed to be out of control. Barthelme on the other side who always kept the ship together. Nothing could touc
h the Jessica. The BG stayed clear of the cunning captain and the experienced crew. Filcher let out a slow breath and closed the drawer.

  “Admiral.” It was Milicent, the comms officer. He only came when an encoded point to point transmission came through.

  “I don’t want it,” said Filcher. “Probably some frakking Fed official pulling us in yet another direction.”

  “I think it’s coming from the President.”

  “I don’t want to talk to that ass.” Filcher watched his face for any sign of surprise, but he masked it well. He’s going to remind me of my duty, thought Filcher. The greater good.

  “Sir, I need your signature or they’re gonna keep pinging me.” Milicent stood in the doorway holding the small screen in front of him like a waiter with a platter of finger food, like the message might fall out if he tipped it. Filcher nodded and the man put it on his desk and then took one reluctant step back and stopped, waiting. Filcher let him dangle for a few moments then looked up, his eyes boring a hole through the man’s head. Milicent stammered, apologetic. “Admiral, can you please sign?”

  Filcher pressed his thumb on the bottom right and the message moved to the screen on his desk. Milicent headed for the door. “Milicent,” said Filcher. “Thank you.”

  “Your welcome, Sir,” he said, smiling, saluting before heading back to comms.

  Good kid, thought Filcher. This shit ain’t fair.

  “Authorization code?” said his computer.

  “F-I-L-C-8-6-7-5-3-0-9-Y-1.”

  The message flashed onto his screen and Filcher took a deep breath. The President was coming. The little weasel never had good news. But he didn’t think it could be worse than what he already knew.