“I don’t think they can,” William said. “The briefing papers said that leaving the spaceport requires special permission from the planetary authorities.”
“Probably in triplicate,” Davidson commented.
“And countersigned by at least two officials,” William agreed seriously. “Judging from the unofficial reports, hardly any freighter crews seek liberty on Jorlem.”
“The President said as much,” Kat agreed. In addition to keeping locals from interacting with outsiders and their brazen ideas, the planetary government could also make a great deal of money for itself in a restricted zone simply by offering everything from cheap booze to cheaper prostitutes. “It doesn’t sound like a good place to take leave.”
In addition, everything is probably taxed heavily, she thought cynically. They’ll want to extort as much off-world currency as possible.
“There is a security issue,” Crenshaw pointed out. “The Theocracy will have their own crewmen running around on shore leave.”
Davidson snorted. “I doubt it,” he said. “Their crews never take shore leave.”
“Too much prospect of them deserting, I expect,” Kat said.
“They might also try to kidnap or kill some of our crewmembers,” Crenshaw pointed out grimly. “It’s a risk!”
“I know,” Kat said. “But it is one we have to take.”
She took one last look at the tactical display. “Take the bridge,” she ordered. “Sir William, Major Davidson, remain behind.”
Crenshaw nodded and rose, heading out of the compartment. Roach’s image vanished a second later. Kat cursed the enemy ship under her breath. Davidson had been right. Just by existing, Glory of God was disrupting her plans. Using a battleship-battlecruiser to smash freighters was overkill, but Kat was all too aware that the enemy ship could take out any convoy escorts she might reasonably expect to encounter in the sector.
“I found a potential contact,” William said quietly. “But I’ll have to go down to the planet to speak to him personally.”
“See to it,” Kat said. “But watch your back.”
“Take a couple of marines along,” Davidson offered.
“They won’t talk to me if I have escorts,” William said bluntly. “Making contact alone will be tricky. Even with my . . . relations . . . it won’t be easy to convince anyone to talk to me. I might have to shell out a great deal of untraceable cash.”
“We can afford it,” Kat told him. She understood his concerns—he’d grown up on a poor world—but she would sooner spend money than her crew’s lives. “We need whatever advantages we can get.”
“The local criminal fraternity must be worried,” Davidson said. “If the Theocracy takes over . . .”
“They’ll probably wait and see what happens,” William said. “Some of them probably think they can make a deal with the Theocracy.”
“And they might be right,” Kat agreed.
She shook her head in frustration. “Do we have a set of potential freighters to escort?”
“Four possible destinations, so far,” William said. “If we split up, we’ll each have around ten freighters to escort.”
“We’ll work it out when we’re ready to leave,” Kat said. “This time, we’ll have to limit the number of ships that can join the convoys.”
“Particularly with Glory of God watching us,” William agreed. “They won’t care about triggering an energy storm.”
Kat scowled. Tracking a starship in hyperspace wasn’t easy, particularly if the starship had a solid lead, but the enemy would have no doubt of their destination. They had to tell the freighter crews where they were going, after all. She would be surprised if the Theocracy didn’t know almost as soon as she made the announcement.
It can’t be helped, she told herself. All we can do is stay off the regular shipping routes as much as possible.
“The Admiralty may expect us to deal with her,” Kat said quietly. “Until then . . .”
She looked at William. “Good luck,” she added. “Dismissed.”
“You took a hell of a risk,” Davidson said as soon as William’s image had vanished from the compartment. “President Alexis might have meant you harm.”
“He’s not suicidal,” Kat said stiffly. “Kidnapping or killing a commanding officer would be a declaration of war and he knows it.”
“He might have expected Glory of God to back him up,” Davidson pointed out.
“Jorlem would still be screwed,” Kat countered. “They might win the first engagement, Pat, but the Admiralty would send a full battle squadron to demand redress.”
“Unless the demands of the war prevented a full response,” Davidson replied.
Kat nodded towards the tactical display. “A couple of battlecruisers would be more than sufficient,” she reminded him. She looked up, meeting his eyes. “I knew there was a risk, but I judged it manageable.”
“I know,” Davidson said.
“We’re on a warship, in the middle of a war,” Kat said. “There’s no way to escape risk.”
She gave her lover a reassuring but weary look. Davidson wasn’t as insanely overprotective as her father’s security officers back during her childhood, but she knew he worried about her. The dynamic was frustrating at times, a droll reminder why relationships like theirs were regarded as dubious when they weren’t outright forbidden. And yet she appreciated him caring about her. Too many others saw nothing more than the Falcone name.
“All we can do now is wait,” she added quietly. “And see what happens.”
“They may do something hasty,” Davidson warned. “I don’t think they hate anyone more than they hate you.”
Kat nodded, grimly. “If they do, we’ll deal with it,” she said. “That ship has to be on its own, doesn’t it? They can’t have any backup.”
“Not unless they’ve decided they can spare a few more ships,” Davidson said.
“I doubt it,” Kat said. She hadn’t had a chance to read the latest set of analysis reports, but she was fairly certain that the battleship-battlecruiser had no place in a line of battle. Glory of God had been kept from the front because she had no real role there. “I don’t think they could spare a handful of freighters for logistics, let alone a handful of additional warships.”
She grinned at the thought. If she was right, the enemy ship couldn’t hope to replenish any missiles it fired. Or anything else, for that matter. She wasn’t in a better position, she had to admit, but her supply dumps were closer. And the Admiralty might send her a few more ships once they understood the need.
Davidson gazed at his captain. “Are you planning something?”
“We might be able to jump her,” Kat said. Two could play games with energy storms in hyperspace. “If we caught her by surprise and crippled her, she’d have no way home.”
“But that wouldn’t matter so much as long as she was here,” Davidson warned.
“I know,” Kat said. “Even if she can’t open a gateway, she can still dominate Jorlem until we get enough ships out here to deal with her.”
If we can, she added silently. There were too many demands on the Navy’s limited number of ships. Jorlem is simply not as important as Vangelis.
She tossed the ideas around in her head for a long moment, then put them aside. There were too many other things to do. She hated the idea of just leaving an enemy warship alone, but she might have no choice. The Theocracy, deliberately or otherwise, had created a nasty headache for the Commonwealth. Almost anything she did would reflect badly on her superiors.
And as long as the Theocracy doesn’t start anything, she thought sourly, we can’t start anything either.
“We shall wait,” Kat said. “It’s all we can do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jorlem’s spaceport zone, William discovered as he strode down the main street, was essentially identical to a hundred other such spaceports he’d seen in his long career. The streets were lined with bars and brothels, loud music echoing
through the air as streams of spacers made their way from their shuttlecrafts into the nearest bars. A cluster of young women in skimpy dresses waved at him as he passed, clearly taking him for yet another spacer out for a good time. William ignored them as he kept moving, following the map he’d loaded into his implants. His destination was right on the edge of the zone.
And Henderson died somewhere like this, he reminded himself. I need to stay alert.
The building looked more like a prison than a bar, he noted, as he approached a surrounding fence. The official maps didn’t show any of the security precautions, but orbital observations confirmed the existence of a kill zone surrounding the spaceport, a zone where escaping spacers could be spotted and shot without hesitation. President Alexis would have to be insane to risk shooting spacers on shore leave, William thought, but it was clear he didn’t want to risk contamination. Who knew what ideas foreign spacers might introduce to his people.
The bar loomed up in front of him, utterly unremarkable, making little attempt to attract customers. William wasn’t surprised. The people who had business at the bar would know about it. Anyone else would be quietly told to move on as quickly as possible. William pushed the door open and stepped into the lobby. A bouncer, his enhanced muscles clearly visible even through the nice suit he wore, glared at him suspiciously. William gazed back evenly.
“I’m expected,” he said simply.
The bouncer checked his ID, then scanned his body with a handheld sensor. William suspected the gesture was pointless—he would be astonished if the local security service didn’t know about the bar’s true line of work—but he had a feeling it helped reassure some of the customers. They would prefer to hold their discussions well away from the prying eyes and ears of the planetary government.
And everyone else too, William thought as he was shown into the bar. Jorlem is a haven for spies.
He smiled in genuine amusement as he heard soft music playing. The bar looked like a high-class officer’s joint rather than the cruder places reserved for merchant spacers and ordinary crewmen. Instead of dancing girls, the space offered a handful of privacy booths and a number of waitresses dressed in elegant uniforms. One of them bowed politely to William, then led him towards the nearest booth. His implants reported a number of security fields blinking into existence as he sat down, making it hard to record anything. The technology wasn’t quite on par with that of the Commonwealth, he noted, but it was good enough to disrupt anything short of his implants. Even their readings would be very limited.
“Mr. Abramson will be down in a few moments,” the waitress said. “Can I fetch you anything?”
“Fresh orange and lemonade,” William said. “Just bring it over here when he arrives.”
William settled into the comfortable chair and waited. He’d sent the message, using some of his brother’s codes, knowing it would either open doors or slam them shut. The reply had told him to come to the hidden bar . . . but nothing else. There was no way to know just what was waiting for him. He doubted it was a trap—the spaceport zone was meant to be neutral—but it could easily be a waste of time.
“Captain Sir William McElney,” a quiet voice said. “Welcome to Jorlem.”
William looked up. An elderly man was standing in front of him, his unkempt white hair reminding William of a grandfather he’d known and loved as a child. Mr. Abramson didn’t look like a criminal, William had to admit as the man sat down, but that was an advantage in his line of work. An information broker who acquired a reputation for being untrustworthy wouldn’t remain alive for long.
“Thank you,” William said. “Mr. Abramson, I presume?”
“Your brother was quite keen that I should be of service,” Mr. Abramson said. “But I should tell you upfront that I do have operating costs.”
“I understand,” William said. His brother’s contacts had their limits. “I am authorized to pay for services rendered.”
“Of course, of course,” Mr. Abramson said. He smiled cheerfully. “And what sort of services would you like?”
William leaned forward. “Information on Theocratic and pirate activity within the sector,” he said slowly. “And information on what governments have made contact with the Theocracy.”
Mr. Abramson cocked his head. “And what will you do with the pirates?”
“Hunt them down and kill them,” William said. There was no point in trying to hide his intentions. Mr. Abramson didn’t need to be an information broker to know the Navy’s standing orders concerning pirates. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“Perhaps . . .” Mr. Abramson said. He shrugged. “I will give you one piece of information for free and another for ten thousand crowns. Untraceable crowns.”
William worked to keep his face impassive. His expense account could cover it, but he knew from bitter experience it was better to haggle. A negotiator who didn’t get beaten down would suspect, perhaps rightly, that they could have held out for more. And yet William couldn’t help feeling that time was pressing.
“It depends,” he said. “What piece of information is worth so much money?”
“The location of a pirate base,” Mr. Abramson said.
William sucked in his breath sharply. A base . . . Mr. Abramson was right. A pirate base was worth a great deal of money. But was it worth ten thousand crowns?
“We’ll give you two thousand now and three thousand if it checks out,” he said after a moment. “Is that suitable?”
“Five thousand now and three thousand afterwards,” Mr. Abramson said. They haggled backwards and forwards until they settled on a price. “And the piece of information I’m giving you for free is a location under pirate control.”
William frowned. “A location?”
“A cloudscoop, to be precise,” Mr. Abramson added. “It’s proving quite a nuisance.”
“It would,” William agreed. There weren’t that many cloudscoops in the sector, and most of them were in systems that could fend off any number of pirate ships. He was surprised he hadn’t heard about a captured cloudscoop from Jorlem or Vangelis, although the planetary authorities might not have known. A pirate who seized a cloudscoop would have every incentive to keep it quiet. “And you want them removed?”
“They’re bad for business,” Mr. Abramson said.
William understood. Pirates, smugglers, and information brokers were often interlinked, but the more extreme pirates were very bad for the other two. He could understand Mr. Abramson wanting to get rid of them, even if the only way to do it was to tip off the Royal Navy. And if the pirates were a real problem, the broker would be happy to sell them down the river for free.
The base he betrayed might belong to a set of really nasty pirates, he thought.
“We’ll be happy to deal with them,” William said. “What else can you offer?”
“Very little about pirates,” Mr. Abramson said, “however, I can tell you that seven governments have been contacted by the Theocracy. They’ve all been given the same offer—allow missionaries to enter their society in exchange for protection.”
William shook his head in disbelief. “And they actually think the Theocracy will honor its promises?”
“I don’t believe so,” Mr. Abramson said. “But there are . . . factions . . . within several of the governments that will be quite keen on accepting outside assistance, without caring about the price.”
“Of course,” William agreed dryly.
“I’ve been monitoring the situation closely,” Mr. Abramson added. “You can have a complete copy of my findings for five thousand crowns.”
“One thousand,” William countered. They haggled again until they agreed on a price. “Is President Alexis likely to make an alliance with the Theocracy?”
“He’s holding out for a number of weapons and warships,” Mr. Abramson said. He smiled rather thinly. “Despite his best efforts, discontent is growing on Jorlem. He’s purged a number of officials already for ideas above their station and i
nstalled a whole new layer of spies within the security forces, but . . . it’s not working. He thinks the Theocracy can give him the tools to keep his population under control.”
“They’re not going to be able to supply warships,” William said.
“Probably not,” Mr. Abramson said. “They have been purchasing every ship they can get, though. Prices have been going up all over the sector because their agents have been outbidding everyone else. It’s actually having an effect on shipping prices too.”
“How the hell are they paying for it?”
“Good question,” Mr. Abramson said. “And no, I don’t have an answer.”
“Oh,” William said.
He contemplated the problem for a long moment. The Theocracy wasn’t exactly poor, but their currency wasn’t accepted outside the Theocracy itself. They had very little to sell, beyond warships . . . and they wouldn’t want to sell warships. They did have access to dozens of asteroid belts, he supposed, but so did countless other star systems. There was nothing they could offer that couldn’t be matched or exceeded by the Commonwealth . . .
Maybe they just took out loans, he mused. Or . . .
He leaned forward. “Are they forging the payments somehow?”
“I doubt it,” Mr. Abramson said. “We’re not talking about a handful of crowns, not here.”
William nodded, ruefully. A handful of crowns might be passed, unchecked, but anything over a couple of thousand—far less than anyone would need to purchase a warship—would be checked via StarCom before the transaction was made. Conning the system repeatedly would be difficult, perhaps impossible. It might be possible, as a one-off, but doing it repeatedly would be noticeable. Too many people would have to be involved . . .
“If you figure out the answer,” he said, “we’d like to know.”
“I’m sure you would,” Mr. Abramson said. “So . . . do you have anything else you want to know?”
Cursed Command (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 3) Page 20