Karadon (Fourth Fleet Irregulars)

by S J MacDonald

  He did not have to wait long to find out. Just seconds after the Stepeasy had established orbit, they began signalling the station. They were using an encrypted signal but the Heron’s computers decoded it instantly. The call was directed to Chokran Dayfield and Belassa Torres. It stated simply, “Report situation,” and was signed Kalvin Geovane.

  Kalvin Geovane was CEO of ISiS Corps, chairman of the board at Head Office and one of the most powerful figures in the intersystem corporate world. That he’d turned up in person was an indicator of how important this crisis at their flag-station was to the company. That he’d arrived on the hyperliner indicated that someone extraordinarily wealthy had sent him on their private yacht, sparing no expense to get him here as fast as possible. The chances were high that that person was The Shareholder. If that was the case, Kalvin Geovane might have orders from the owner of ISiS Corps that could change the situation entirely. Either way, he was now a major player on scene.

  Alex’s expression was thoughtful as he watched the reply flash back from Belassa Torres. They had come so close. Another couple of days and he was confident that Ambit Persane would declare the necessary state of emergency and ask the Fourth to go aboard the station. It would be a complex boarding op but Alex was confident in his team and in the range of contingency plans they’d trained for. Now he feared that they might have to start all over again, dealing with a new authority who’d need convincing that this was the best way to resolve the situation.

  Belassa Torres’ report was evidently a document intended to be sent off on the next mail courier to Flancer. It set out a stark summary of the events at the station since the Fourth’s arrival.

  Alex wondered how the CEO would react to the news that Karadon, the flag-station of ISiS Corp, had been all but shut down. Being told that the only people now on the station were the drug traffickers and hired flunkeys, all fired but refusing to leave, would be bad enough. Being told that Chokran Dayfield had suffered a breakdown and that the intern Ambit Persane was now the acting MD would be even worse. Ambit, indeed, was very soon sending a note to the CEO, introducing himself respectfully.

  Everything went quiet then for about a minute, then a terse signal was transmitted from the Stepeasy to the ICV 12. It was an instruction to Belassa Torres and Ambit Persane to go aboard the Stepeasy at once. Intriguingly, it added, “Bring Zelda.”

  Belassa Torres’ response was interesting, too. Instead of the immediate acknowledgement the CEO would no doubt be expecting, she sent back a signal pointing out that this might not be advisable.

  “While the ICV 12 is docked to the station it can not be boarded. Once we leave the station the Fourth may attempt to detain one or more of us as material witnesses.”

  There was another half-minute of silence from the hyperliner, then the signal requiring the three of them to go aboard was repeated. This time Belassa Torres merely confirmed that they would be departing at once.

  Then, and only then, did the Stepeasy signal the Fourth. Using an open comm, they signalled a text message on ISiS Corps letterhead. It was addressed to “Shipmaster A S von Strada, CO Heron” from “K Geovane, CEO ISiS Corps”. The content read simply,

  “You are invited to a meeting aboard the Stepeasy at 1750. You may bring two of your officers.”

  Buzz looked at Alex, as they read that together, and saw the decision on the skipper’s face. He nodded, too, in full agreement with him.

  “Uh, sir?” Martine saw that, and looked alarmed. She looked a bit embarrassed, too, as she spoke up. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have to point out that it is against Fleet regulation for a skipper to lead a boarding party.”

  Alex gave her an approving look for that. One of the many hats Martine wore as First Lieutenant was that of Internal Affairs officer. It was part of her job to monitor that all Fleet policies were being adhered to, and bring it to the skipper’s attention if they weren’t.

  “Quite right, Lt Commander,” Alex agreed. “However, this isn’t a boarding operation. It is a meeting aboard a ship that is not classified as hostile or dangerous.”

  “Yes sir,” Martine was a little pink, but determined. “But are we sure they’re not hostile or dangerous, sir? We don’t actually know who might be aboard that ship, or how they may react to what we’ve done to their station.”

  Alex broke into a grin at that.

  “You think the Shareholder may be aboard?” he queried, reading that in her anxiety. “And have his henchmen blow me away for having forced his station to shut down?”

  “That’s unlikely, I admit,” Martine conceded. “What I’m saying is, though, that you are talking about going into an unknown situation, sir. It’s not like the Queen of Cartasay where we worked with their security beforehand. And you do have a high risk profile, sir.”

  “Thank you, Lt Commander, advice duly noted,” Alex said, with a little gleam of humour as he saw right through that to what she was really asking. “And yes, all right, you can be one of the officers accompanying me.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she relaxed at that. Buzz gave her an approving nod, too. Regs didn’t allow the skipper and exec to be off the ship at the same time, and he too would have asked for Martine to go along, watching the skipper’s back. “And may I bring Sub-lt Michaels as the second officer, sir?”

  Alex gave her a slightly puzzled look for a moment, till he realised why she was asking that. Jonty Michaels was hugely enthusiastic in everything he did. He ran the Comms department with dazzling efficiency and had acquitted himself well in every boarding operation he’d undertaken. He had also won the shipboard small-arms competition, proving himself to be the fastest and most accurate shot in the crew.

  “You’re not going to suggest that we go in boarding armour, are you?” Alex asked, which got a laugh since he was obviously joking.

  “No, skipper,” Martine chuckled too at that, though her eyes remained serious. “I do think we should take survival suits with us, though, and have snatch teams on standby.”

  Alex grinned back tolerantly, and nodded.

  1749, therefore, saw all three of them at the airlock. They were dressed in the style of uniform the Fleet usually called “groundside” although they were used for formal meetings aboard other ships and stations as well. The tunic, narrow pants and boots looked rather more severe in Fourth’s grey than Fleet blue, but it was a lot smarter and more business-like than the casual looking coveralls of shipboard rig.

  “You do realise,” said Alex, watching as Martine checked the pistol in her belt holster one last time before boarding the shuttle, “that they almost certainly won’t allow us aboard with guns?”

  Martine nodded. Both she and Jonty Michaels were wearing belt holsters with compact stun pistols openly displayed. Alex had his in a pocket holster, as he preferred. All three of them had survival suits, tightly packed in quick-release wallets, handy on their belts.

  “In that case, sir, I would advise against us going aboard,” Martine said.

  “So noted,” Alex replied. “But I will make that determination at the time.”

  Martine didn’t argue. That would, after all, be the skipper’s decision. Her responsibility was merely to advise. In fact, she would readily board the Stepeasy herself, unarmed and unprotected, having no real fear of attack from anyone aboard it. She was only advising caution because the situation was unknown and Alex’s risk-profile was so high that he was not supposed to be out in public unless risk assessments had been carried out and appropriate protection had been put in place.

  “Right, then,” Alex looked at Jonty Michaels, and smiled. Jonty had leapt at the opportunity to come with them, to the envy of the other super-Subs. His eyes were bright with excitement and he was practically standing on his tiptoes with eagerness to be off. “Calm and dignified, Mr Michaels,” the skipper requested, and Jonty immediately snapped to attention, reverting to the Academy Yap in his embarrassment.

  “Sir, yes sir!”

  Alex grinned, and gave Buzz a nod, the
n, as the Exec had come to see them off.

  “The ship is yours,” Alex told him, as the required format when a skipper left their ship.

  “I’ll try not to break it, sir,” said Buzz, in the traditional Fleet response. In the circumstances, that made Alex chuckle and a burst of laughter went up around the ship, too. The Heron, though not broken, was certainly a bit battered. Damage response teams were still busy at work, both out on the hull and on board. It would be several hours before they’d finished repairs, and a couple of days before they’d completed the thorough strip-down diagnostics the skipper had ordered.

  Alex led the way aboard the shuttle and nodded a greeting to their pilot as he sat down in the co-pilot’s seat beside her. It did not escape his notice that the pilot was Hali Burdon, their Master at Arms. She also had a pistol clipped to her belt. She was already wearing a survival suit. Four combat rifles were clipped into the armoury unit next to the airlock.

  Alex made no comment. However unnecessary he might feel such precautions to be, himself, he would not deny his officers the right to take them.

  “That is one beautiful ship,” Hali observed, as she piloted them over to it. The Stepeasy was bigger than the frigate. The Heron, in comparison, looked blocky and commonplace. The Fleet had already ordered four of the military version of this ship – it would be the next generation of the Dart class destroyers. Again, it would be months yet before the shipyards at Mandram completed the first of the ships being built for the Fleet. This one had to either be some kind of prototype or a special order, built before the ship went into commercial production. “Do you suppose the Admiralty would let us have one of the new Darts, sir?” Hali asked, half joking.

  Alex grinned, though he shook his head. He knew very well that the Fourth was always likely to get ships either out of the reserve or nearing the end of their operational life. That was part of his remit on the tagged and flagged programme, to explore ways to modernise and improve low-performing ships. In the case of the Heron, he’d been told to upgrade the ship to see if the still viable Seabird 37s could be re-tasked for law enforcement operations. They might even be able to sell some of them to Customs.

  “Not likely,” he said, and with a glance back at his own scorched and scraped ship, “We might scratch the paintwork.”

  Hali was still laughing at that as she brought the shuttle in to dock. She was straight faced and crisply military, however, as the airlock opened.

  The outer airlock of the Stepeasy opened, at any rate. An officer in a uniform of the same dark red colour as the yacht’s paintwork was standing there waiting to meet them. The interior airlock hatch, however, remained closed.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” The officer was a few years older than Alex. The Merchant Service insignia on his uniform was that of a Lt Commander, though he acknowledged the seniority of Fleet pips with a nod for Martine, “ma’am.” Then he introduced himself with smoothly deferential courtesy, “Lt Commander Murchson, First Mate.”

  It would have seemed more natural somehow for him to have said “Executive Officer”. Alex would have put money on this man being ex-Fleet.

  “Lt Commander,” Alex inclined his head in polite acknowledgement, noting as he did so that the other officer was making no move to admit them aboard the yacht.

  “I’m afraid that I do have to request that you comply with certain requirements before proceeding aboard, sir,” said the Lt Commander. He glanced tellingly at the holsters on Martine and Jonty’s belts. “Visitors are not permitted to bring weapons aboard the Stepeasy. You are welcome to retain your wristcoms and personal computers. However, I must advise you that recording of any kind is not permitted aboard the Stepeasy and that any attempt to activate visual or audio recording devices will trigger an alarm.” As Alex continued to look at him without reacting, the Stepeasy’s First Mate went on, calmly, “You will also be required, before coming aboard, to sign legally binding confidentiality agreements. I trust you will understand the necessity for such precautions, sir.”

  Alex considered. If what they were dealing with here really was just the CEO of ISiS Corps, then such a demand was outrageous. If, however, either The Shareholder or another member of the Founding Families was aboard this ship, it was entirely understandable. They protected their privacy with such ferocious determination that the media was not even allowed to identify them by name, let alone broadcast pictures of them.

  “Let me see the agreement,” he said, noncommittally.

  Lt Commander Murchson produced it on a hand-comp, which Alex took with a nod of thanks and held so that Martine Fishe could read it as well. It was quite a short document, but both of them recognised it as extremely strong. This was not the kind of confidentiality agreement they could break by changing their minds later and going to the media. It required them to acknowledge that they understood that legal injunctions were in place restricting the media’s right to broadcast about the presence or identity of the owner of this ship, and that any attempt on their part to publicise that information would render them liable to civil and criminal prosecution.

  Alex took out a pen and signed it, adding retinal and DNA scans for ID confirmation. Martine looked at him searchingly just for a moment, then and did the same. Jonty Michaels, handed a copy and a pen, barely glanced through it before following their lead. All three of them also put their pistols into the armoury unit, Martine with a little reluctance. Then Alex looked at the First Mate.

  “All right?”

  “Thank you, sir,” he seemed a little relieved, evidently having been concerned that they might take such exception to those conditions that they’d refuse them and leave. “If you’d step into the airlock…” he gestured hospitably. Once they were all in he closed the hatch to the shuttle, but did not immediately open the one leading into the ship. “Just routine boarding procedure,” he assured them, as a mist filled the airlock. It smelt of decontamination chemicals, sharp with disinfectant.

  All three of them looked at him, Alex unemotional and the other two accusing, and the officer looked a little embarrassed. There was no way that disinfecting your visitors could be anything but offensive, really. The Fleet only did that if pathogen detectors were triggered in the airlocks. That was not the case here, and being subjected to decontam before they were allowed on board was just rude. Martine looked suspicious, too. Had it not been for the fact that one of the yacht’s officers was in here breathing the stuff with them, she’d have grabbed for her survival suit.

  After a few seconds, the mist vanished and a drying heat removed the feel of dampness from their skin and clothes. A final warm puff enveloped them in a pleasantly scented freshener. Then, finally, the internal hatch was opened.

  They emerged into a spacious boarding area where about ten crewmembers in the same kind of red uniform stood smartly to attention, trying to look like a reception and not an armed group standing by to defend the yacht if the Fourth tried to board it by force.

  “If you’ll come this way, sir,” their escort took them the few metres across the boarding lobby and into a g-porter. Jonty looked frankly impressed. Even liners only had vertical elevators for their passengers. Grav-porters, able to travel horizontally as well, took up a good deal of space and were only used in big stations. “You will be meeting,” said Lt Commander Murchson, “with Mr North, the majority shareholder of ISiS Corps.”

  Alex’s eyebrows flicked up slightly. There was no “Mr North” on the list of people he’d seen who were believed to be possible owners of ISiS Corps. The strongest candidate, according to Admiral Smith, was a man called Andrei Delaney. He was considered to be wealthy and powerful even amongst the Founding Families, a leading figure amongst them, though he took no part in public life.

  “Please do not,” Lt Commander Murchson requested, as the g-porter doors opened again, “attempt to shake hands or make any physical contact with Mr North.”

  Ah, thought Alex. The enforced decontamination began to make sense, now. This “Mr North” was
evidently an eccentric recluse, probably elderly, with a phobia about germs. With another part of his mind he took note of the fact, from the g-porter display, that they were now on deck two of the yacht, amidships.

  Then they were led out into the lounge.

  Alex’s first impression was that they were in a planetarium. The walls and ceiling were a holographic dome that was showing a view of the surrounding space, with the station to port. The deck had the same kind of glass floor effect, so that they seemed to be walking out into open space. There was, however, furniture. Six over-sized sofas were grouped for conversation, each with a crystal coffee table. All of the sofas were covered with white fur.

  There were at least twenty people in the room, though only one of them was seated. Alex recognised the CEO of ISiS Corps standing to one side, tall and elegant. Many of the others present were in expensive business suits, too, though there were also uniformed crew in attendance.

  Alex, however, focussed on the seated figure. He was startled to see that the person sitting on the sofa was a child. He didn’t look as if he could be more than about twelve. He was small and light-framed, with elfin features and large, dark eyes. He was strangely dressed in cropped white silk pants and an Oltes Jets flickball t-shirt. His hairstyle was even more peculiar – his black hair had been styled into a mop of glossy ringlets, falling almost to his shoulders. His feet, Alex noticed, were bare.

  “Come in. Take a seat,” said the boy, and gestured Alex towards the sofa that faced his. He spoke with assurance, as if he expected to take a leading role in this meeting. None of the adults standing around and behind him said anything. “And explain to me what you have done to my station.”

  Alex stayed on his feet, looking at him guardedly.

  “Your station?” he queried.

  “My station,” the boy confirmed. “I am Davie-Boy North Delaney, majority shareholder of ISiS Corps. The last I heard, I own sixty seven per cent of it. It will be more by now,” he added, conversationally, “shares were going down the lavvy so I told my agents to buy them up.”