The clear–space of the station was clearly marked with illumination globes for the entire hemisphere, so that there would be a constant source of light, even when the station’s orbit carried it through the night shadow of the cold dead world that anchored it in Silboomie system. The ship’s marks were clearly visible, once in range; great Ragnarok itself, whispered and gossiped about as much because of the people on board as the innovative promise of the black hull.
Scanner Habsee, the Supply Officer on shift, counted the people who were watching the spectacle, and shook her head. Nineteen heads, and only thirty–six on Station. It was just as well that theirs was an oversight function, restricted to maintaining the automatics and administering the appropriate releases and secures. Because if the work relied upon the living, rather than the mechanical, it would have come to a standstill just now, to watch the Ragnarok’s barge come in.
From Habsee’s post in the control pillar, she could see the pilot platform on the barge as it sank past her line of sight. There were three people on it, and one of them had to be the Engineer, since he was required to attest to the receipt and valid need for supplies transferred.
One of the people on the pilot platform was tall enough to be the Chigan engineer Serge of Wheatfields, notorious throughout Fleet not so much for his own accomplishments — which were respectable — as for what Fleet had accomplished against him. There was a question to be raised though, over whether the adjective notorious could be applied to any of the Ragnarok’s officers in comparison to its Ship’s Surgeon, whose reputation outshone that even of the late, unlamented Fleet Captain Lowden for dreadfulness and horror. Supply Officer Habsee wondered if the Engineer was ever jealous of Andrej Koscuisko.
With the Engineer at the wheel on the pilot platform the barge slid into its preprogrammed docking slot without a single jolt or jar, not so much as a flash of proximity warning lights. Locked off, ready to commence loading, the barge engaged its interface protocols with the Station’s cranes, and the transfer process began.
Descending the ladder set into the side of the barge, the three people who had ridden it down began to make their way across the tarmac to the lifts. And suddenly something fell out of the upper atmosphere, something huge and black, erratic in its movements, swift and sudden in its turns.
Habsee could hear the exclamations of the onlookers over the monitors: fear, confusion, wonder. Recognition. It wasn’t a huge black awful thing falling from the underbelly of the Ragnarok. It was only the Ragnarok’s Intelligence Officer, taking advantage of the joined atmospheres to fly the extra distance rather than ride on the barge.
The Desmodontae came in swift and low, heading straight for the control pillar; to climb up the outer wall, Habsee supposed. It disappeared from sight below the lip of the tower’s balcony, only to reappear — climbing up over the outer railing — even as the lift doors opened to discharge the other members of the Ragnarok’s supply party.
Habsee went to her post, to greet them formally from behind the transfer–desk. There on the desk’s surface was the supply manifest, complete and cross–checked, ready for receipt signatures and release of responsibility.
It was rather a full manifest, she’d noticed. Maybe the ship had been out beyond range of resupply for the months since the death of Captain Lowden. Some of the staff thought that the Ragnarok had been on training maneuvers at Pesadie Training Command, though, and not out in the Fringe at all.
It wasn’t any of their business, really. They were reasonable people. The ship requested the support; Silboomie Station supplied it. That was their job. Their mission. Asking questions about clients’ recent active postings was not included in the mission statement.
“Welcome to Silboomie Station, gentles,” she said. She could hear a scrabbling sound behind her, to her left, as the Desmodontae let itself in from the outer balcony. “Your manifest has been prepared. I think you’ll find everything in good order. I’m Scanner Habsee, the shift Supply Officer.”
The Desmodontae had scuttled past the desk to take its place with the other crew from the Ragnarok. “Ship’s Engineer,” the tall Chigan said, confirming her previous guess. “Serge of Wheatfields. Logistics Control, Pinapin Rydel. Stores–and–Replenishments, He Talks. The Intelligence Officer, Two.”
Logistics and Stores–and–Replenishments nodded politely in turn, but the Desmodontae only stared. What was it doing here? Logistics and Stores–and–Replenishments one expected, but what did an Intelligence Officer have to do with a routine resupply? Had there been an undiscovered shortage of the nutrient broth that Desmodontae used for food? What?
“As you’ll see from the manifest, we’re ready to validate,” Habsee replied, a little nervously. “Will you be wanting to spot audit prior to acceptance, your Excellency?”
Many Engineers did, as part of good prudence, and to ensure that they were receiving what they had requested. It was different for commercial transfers, of course. Smaller orders could be more easily verified, and commercial transfers involved money. If the Ragnarok didn’t get what it expected, they’d just reorder. Silboomie Station was a chartered Fleet support activity; they took what Fleet paid, and were grateful for that much. They had their own ways of making sure that the margins were acceptable.
“Won’t be necessary this trip. We’re all reasonable people, after all, aren’t we? And Two has validated the audit trail.” The Engineer’s response was a little confusing, but he kept talking, as if what he’d just said had been easily understandable. “There are some additional stores we’re particularly anxious to pick up, now that we’re here. They weren’t on the pre–trans manifest, we’d like to do an ad–hoc add–on.”
Happened all the time, especially where reasonable people were concerned. As long as there weren’t too many last–minute requests, they could usually locate and load the desired commodity before the barge had finished clearing its original manifest.
“Of course, sir. Material class code?”
The Engineer glanced down at the silent staring Desmodontae at his side, and the Intelligence Officer turned its black–velvet muzzle up in the Chigan’s direction and spoke.
“Standard deck–wipes, by the octave, each,” the Intelligence Officer said — and its voice was female. Female, and oddly cheerful, somehow. “But a particular lot, if you please. It should be located at encrypt serio trevi–spikal–conjut–seven. Sector four. Line two. Crane access seventeen.”
Deck–wipes weren’t an acquisition item, under normal circumstances. They were as easy to come by as they were easy to dispose of, by the octave, each. Scanner Habsee didn’t wonder; she knew how to mind her own business, and she had to scramble to get the matrix coordinates loaded, because by the time she had grasped what she was being told, “Two” was already halfway through the location sequence.
“I confirm encrypt serio trevi–spikal–conjut–seven . . . ” The information came up slowly, the cross–reference seeming to require longer than usual to complete its search. “With respect, ma’am, according to the register it’s a shipment of tallifers, special hold for experimental — ”
Two raised one clawlike hand in a swift gesture of warning, and most of one wing came with it. Habsee shut up, startled into silence.
“There is a very good reason for such an entry,” Two said, solemnly. “We, however, have strict instructions to receive deck–wipes from that coordinate. We are not to leave without them. It would, of course, help immeasurably if you could slip the package into mid–manifest, and excite as little notice as possible.”
As long as there were no inadvertent misunderstandings. Habsee invoked standard handling on emergency override, to get the package moved without the flag–action of a special transfer. Fortunately, the index location was only one or two processes deep; it had been placed quite close to the loading apron — doubtless deliberately.
Two was the Intelligence Officer, after all. If there were Intelligence issues involved, Habsee rather wanted to get r
id of it as soon as she could.
“It will be one moment.” Habsee frowned in concentration, working the problem on–line. Pull a heavy lift off a mid–process, get it to the closest entry site. Find the package — there; load the package. It was remarkably heavy, for its size.
Habsee adjusted the counterbalance resists. The load stabilized; she keyed the global–domain. “Attention on observer. Maximum load limit on dispatch apron has been exceeded, return to post.” She was expected to run the idlers off from time to time; and they had already had the better part of the treat — the Ragnarok’s barge docking, with the dramatic appearance of the Intelligence Officer as an unexpected thrill. “Repeat, maximum load limit exceeded, return to post.”
Clear the area. By the time the lift with the special consignment cleared the front end of the massive stacks to make its slow ascent from two levels down, the dispatch apron was effectively deserted. Not that the movement of the special requisition was really hidden or concealed in any sense, no. It was just as not–obvious as it could be, given the restrictions under which she had to operate.
Then it was done. The special consignment was placed forward, and the loading barge took it up as if it had been waiting for just that. The next four packages in their dull gray, featureless containers slid onto the barge immediately afterward, hiding the special package from sight. The Engineer stepped forward and set his mark against the manifest, bending his head to the ident–scan with solemn, bored gravity.
“And that’s that,” Habsee said, as the ident came back true blue and the manifest ticket faded into SHIPPED from STORES. “Pleasure to be of service to you, gentles. And good–shift.”
Special packages and cruiser–killer–class warships aside, it was just the same thing that she did shift in, shift out, for shift after shift after shift. It was all either “Shipped” or “Stores” to her, and once shipped, it was no longer of any interest to Scanner Habsee whatsoever. She sent a standard notification to Pesadie Training Command to confirm disposition of the special consignment, and went back to her daily tasks without a second thought.
###
Jennet ap Rhiannon stood on a loading apron in the maintenance atmosphere, watching as the maintenance crew unshipped the case of deck–wipes that Wheatfields had brought up from Silboomie Station. Two had traced its provenance through avenues known only to her; Two said it would be evidence. If it was a shipment of tallifers, it would mean one less hope for making their case against Pesadie Training Command.
“What good does it do us, your Excellency?” Mendez asked, from beside her. Mendez to the right of her, Two hanging from a support beam to the left of her, and Wheatfields standing — as was his habit — apart, watching the crew, chewing on a twig of something or another: Command and General Staff, Jurisdiction Fleet Ship Ragnarok.
Only Lieutenant Seascape was missing; she was up in a crane where she could watch the crew work from above. It was a big case of deck–wipes. Twice Wheatfields’s height. Three or four times as long as Wheatfields was tall. One Wheatfields deep.
“I’m hoping it will be ammunition, First Officer.” She appreciated the fact that he called her “Excellency,” even though she knew he knew it was merely a courtesy title. She could not bring herself to call him “Ralph.” “It should prove that Pesadie is corrupt, and trading in armaments. Therefore there is also a strong possibility that the explosion that killed Cowil Brem was related to black market munitions.”
“Wait,” the Ship’s Engineer said suddenly, then lapsed back into his customary sullen silence. Jennet waited. On the crane overlooking the platform, Lieutenant Seascape leaned over the top of the crate as the crew winched its top cover clear.
For a moment Seascape remained just as she was. When Seascape raised her head to look across to where Jennet stood with the other officers, it seemed that her expression was a mixture of horror and delight. Then Seascape urged the crew to hurry as they took down the great side panel that concealed the contents of the crate from Jennet’s view.
Bending over the crane’s basket, Lieutenant Seascape hooked the cable onto one of the lift points on the crane. Jennet hoped she was tethered into the basket; it was a long reach.
The winch started to work, the great side panel lifted, the maintenance crew guided it carefully across the platform to where it could be laid flat. The outline was clear, but the blanket was still in place, and a person could still tell herself that they were mistaken.
The blanket lifted clear. There could be no mistake. It wasn’t a case of deck–wipes; so much had been obvious from the first glimpse they had gotten of the contents of the crate.
“Sanford in Hell,” First Officer swore, but reverently.
It was the main battle cannon for the forward emplacement of a cruiser–killer–class warship, beautiful, deadly, and efficient beyond measure.
Jennet waved at Seascape, calling out to her. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” She needed to know exactly what else was in that container, now that the basic fact was confirmed and undeniable. “Carry on.”
“Somebody will get the Tenth Level for this,” Mendez observed. “Selling off Fleet armament. What’s next?”
Jennet looked up to where Two hung from the crossbeams, scratching her neck with her wing. Mendez knew. Mendez had to know. “At least it gives us some leverage,” Jennet said. “But it means going to Taisheki.”
That was where Fleet Audit Appeals Authority had its base. And so far she had left Pesadie Training Command on false pretenses, though the action could be excused as a misunderstanding if Fleet was generous and willing to overlook it; but once they left Silboomie Station for Taisheki, they were at war with Pesadie. There was no other way around it.
“What exactly do you mean to appeal to Fleet, your Excellency?” Mendez asked, but calmly, without challenge. Playing the Devil’s advocate. “What has Pesadie done? Except for demanding some troops and, oh, been implicated in black–market profiteering with Fleet’s battle cannon, just a little.”
“Demanded surrender of Fleet resources to face the Protocols based on illegally obtained information, demonstrating a clear preconception prejudicial to the rule of Law. Two’s found Brecinn’s marks all over this case of deck–wipes, which proves she’s corrupt. The last person who should be investigating the death of Cowil Brem is an officer who has something to hide. What was she storing on that station, anyway? Why did it explode?”
Wheatfields raised a hand and took the twiglet out of his mouth. “Taisheki,” Wheatfields said. “Three days, your Excellency, maybe five, First Officer.”
Mendez hadn’t asked, but Wheatfields was answering anyway. Jennet felt something in her gut relax. It was only an implicit agreement to go to Taisheki, but it was enough, and it heartened her more than she could say. They’d challenged her decisions, but they’d accepted them; this was the closest they’d come to an endorsement yet — and she needed their support, if she was to have any hope of making this work.
“What about the Bonds, First Officer?” Six bond–involuntary troops were on board, assigned to support Koscuisko at torture work in Secured Medical, governed to obedience. And Koscuisko wasn’t here to keep them comfortable with the situation, to assure them that they were not to blame for the fact that the ship was operating well outside its normal range of procedures. There could be trouble with their governors.
If Wheatfields had agreed and Mendez was not objecting, they believed that the crew would accept the decision. It wasn’t value neutral. Making an appeal to the Fleet Audit Appeals Authority had consequences. If their appeal was not sustained, there could be disciplinary action, loss of rank and pay; disciplinary action that should properly be restricted to the ship’s officers — but the odium attached to having made an appeal that was not sustained would attach itself to the entire crew. Transfer out would be difficult, if not impossible. Nobody wanted troublemakers within their Command.
And there was more. If an appeal was not sustained, it opened the possibility
that Fleet would elect to investigate the Ragnarok for mutinous intent. There was only one reason why so desperate a course of action as an appeal could be contemplated: the fact that Brecinn had made it clear that “mutinous intent” was exactly where she was going anyway.
Mendez did not quite shrug. “So far, so good, your Excellency,” Mendez said. “And making an appeal is within your authority. Medical will keep an eye out. And there’s Koscuisko’s influence to consider; he’s corrupted them to a significant extent.”
This was an intriguing claim. “How do you mean, corrupted?” Jennet asked.
“Gained their trust, your Excellency. Convinced them that nobody’s going to get unreasonable on ‘em without going through him first. Ruins the whole effect, but there you are.”
She’d heard gossip about Koscuisko’s relationship with his Bonds; she hadn’t thought it through, but Mendez was right. The whole idea was for bond–involuntaries to be incapable of transgression, because punishment was so horrible and so immediate. But the governor reacted to internal stress states to make its determination of whether punishment was in order; without those cues, the governor did — nothing.
“Will you go on all–ship, First Officer?”
Mendez nodded. “I’ll make the announcement, your Excellency. Serge. How long to vector transit?”
Wheatfields did something peculiar, even for him.
Raising one arm high overhead, he drew a great looping circle in the air, three times, five times, before he dropped his hand to tuck his twiglet back between his teeth. “Twelve hours,” Wheatfields said.
She could see movement at the far end of the maintenance atmosphere. Engineering was already moving to hull the maintenance atmosphere for vector transit.
“I’d better get, then, your Excellency. With permission.”
Jennet returned Mendez’s bow with grave precision. Wheatfields nodded and excused himself, and she couldn’t tell whether he had actually saluted her or just been momentarily distracted by something underfoot.
The Devil and Deep Space Page 25