One by one, the battlecruisers checked in. “All ships report ready, Commodore,” the squadron coordinator reported. “Weapons hot; I say again, weapons hot.”
“Fire,” Caitlin ordered.
Chapter Thirty
As the Federation considers itself to be charged with ensuring the fundamental unity of the human race, it comes as no surprise that it disapproves intensely of independent worlds. The few settlements that have no ties to the Federation often find themselves pressured into associate membership, even if they have nothing that the Federation actually wants or needs. When a world manages to maintain even a semblance of independence, it only occurs because the world is protected by powerful allies from the Federation.
-An Irreverent Guide to the Federation, 4000 A.D.
Hobson’s Choice, 4095
“We’re not being challenged at all?” Captain Roman Garibaldi asked.
“No, sir,” Uzi said. The enhanced human looked as if he was enjoying himself. “Did you really think that they’d stop us coming into orbit? As far as they’re concerned, we’re just another pirate ship.”
Roman wrinkled his nose. The pirate ship—hastily renamed the Wildflower—stank. It was clear that the pirates hadn’t bothered to do much, if any, preventative maintenance. Roman knew that if Federation Navy ships had routinely been left in such a state, the entire Navy would literally have rotted away. His first commander would have exploded with rage if he’d discovered his crew urinating in the passageways and clogging up the tubes with rubbish, yet that’s exactly what the pirates appeared to have done. In the end, the repair crews had vented the entire ship, just to kill the cockroaches and rats infesting most of the ship. God alone knew how many pirate ships lost life support or internal power because a rat had chewed the wrong piece of wiring.
Even now, after the ship had been put back into near-working order, Roman was still nervous. Midway was following them into the system, hidden under cloak, but if Janine had to recover them, their cover would be blown wide open.
Hobson’s Choice had no government or System Traffic Command. Starships—smugglers, pirates and rebels—clustered the system, taking whatever orbits that suited them and ignoring protests from other starships. Roman would have expected a mass outburst of fighting among pirate crews, but everything seemed to be remarkably civilized. Fighting, the briefing files had stated, wasn’t good for business.
Hobson’s Choice served as a clearing house for pirates and smugglers, where anything could be sold and few—if any—questions were asked about where it had been originally found. The planet should have been shut down years ago, but it seemed that various interests in nearby sector governments had their own ties to the planet. They quietly ensured the Federation Navy never raided the place. Or, better yet, bombarded it from orbit.
He scowled as the helmsman—a volunteer, like everyone else on the undermanned ship—carefully guided her into orbit. Hobson’s Choice was a dull brown world, her surface unbroken by oceans or greenery. The briefing had claimed that most of the planet’s water was actually below the surface, with plants adapted to live in near-desert conditions growing roots that reached down towards the great aquifers. There were no official settlements, either; the handful of small communities were purely nominal, serving as places for crews to land and sell their products. Very few people would choose to live on the planet permanently, apart from Hobson himself. He’d built himself a small farm in the north and refused to have anything to do with most of the visitors.
“Orbit achieved, sir,” the helmsman said. The pirates, for reasons that doubtless made sense to them, had combined the helm and tactical consoles into one. Roman would never have allowed it if he’d been crewing a ship, for the two roles could not be effectively carried out by a single man. “We’ve been pinged by a number of other ships, but nothing from the surface.”
“They don’t bother,” Uzi said. He stood up and grinned at the bridge crew. “Do you still want to see the planet, captain?”
“Yes, I do,” Roman said.
The data they’d recovered from the pirate ship stated that the prisoners would have been brought to Hobson’s Choice, at least until the ransoms were paid. And if they weren’t, Elf had pointed out, they’d be in the right position for being sold as slaves. There were plenty of credible stories about that, or worse, people simply being executed outright; the lucky ones were rescued by the Federation Navy. “Besides, I have to make sure everything goes properly.”
“Don’t worry about us,” Uzi told him. “You just make sure that you and your companions don’t blow your covers. Discovery here could mean death.”
* * *
The shuttle flew down to the settlement, its passage barely troubling the hot air surrounding it. Roman watched through the shuttle’s sensors as it flew over the settlement and turned to land, coming down on a patch of ground on which someone must have used a fusion flame to bake it as hard as rock. The settlement looked rather like a shantytown to him, with hundreds of prefabricated shelters and apartments scattered around without rhyme or reason. There were no wooden shelters, due to the fact that Hobson’s Choice had no forests, but there were a number of buildings constructed from stone. He guessed there had to be a quarry somewhere nearby.
“Just remember,” Uzi said as the shuttle came in to land, “you’re not Federation Navy officers and you’re definitely not Marines. You’re mercenaries from the Free Ship Wildflower sampling the booze and other entertainments here. Even if someone recognizes the Wildflower, they won’t say anything. They’ll just assume that the bastards lost a fight and their ship was taken as a prize. Don’t fuck up and you’ll be fine.”
The shuttle’s hatch cracked open, allowing a wave of hot air to come streaming into the compartment, bringing with it a sandy smell mingled with something unpleasantly human. Roman scowled, resisting the urge to cough as the dry air invaded his lungs, and followed Uzi out into the open air. The sunlight beat down from high above, a mocking reminder that the planet had no ozone layer to protect visitors from the star’s rays. Roman and his crew had been treated to prevent skin cancer—it was a fairly simple genetic modification—but he didn’t want to think about what might happen to anyone who hadn’t been treated. If there were children on the planet...he pushed the thought aside. There couldn’t be children on the planet.
Elf caught his arm as they started to walk towards the settlement in the distance. “Slouch,” she ordered firmly.
Roman nodded and tried to take the Academy out of his walk. It didn’t work very well, but she seemed satisfied. Or perhaps she was hiding her opinion, even though she’d called him crazy in private. A captain shouldn’t risk himself on a landing party in hostile territory.
The settlement had been marked in the files, but it had no name. Up close, it was a sandy mass of small makeshift buildings, prefabricated dumpsters and small shacks. Roman heard the music of a dozen bars, while there was a large market set up in the center of the settlement. He almost stopped dead as he took in the mass of humans and aliens plying the market, buying or selling as the fancy took them. They didn’t seem to care that—officially—aliens were second-class citizens everywhere in the Federation. Here, the scum of the galaxy coexisted in an uneasy peace. He saw men holding guns and swaggering around, sometimes followed by older—beaten—men and women who were clearly slaves. Elf put a hand on his arm as a half-naked girl—with all of her teeth knocked out—walked past, following a tall man with a cruel glint in his eye.
He shuddered inwardly, wondering how anyone could manage to remain indifferent in the face of such suffering. Now that he knew to look, he saw hundreds of slaves, mainly young and female. One of the dumpsters had been turned into a brothel, with girls outside waving to customers and inviting them to come inside for some fun and games. The youngest he saw couldn’t be older than twelve, perhaps younger. Or perhaps she’d been engineered to meet a particular demand...no, that wasn’t possible. Hobson’s Choice didn’t have the me
dical tools to engineer a person’s body for a given specification.
His nose twitched as the wind caught a smell of cooking meat and blew it his way. Someone was cooking a dinner for a pirate crew and showing off the loot they’d taken from their victims. He almost stopped dead as he saw the people following them, nine girls and five boys, their hands manacled in front of them. They had to be captives and, judging by their state, not ones worth ransoming. He saw their fate in the eyes of the people watching them, studying the captives as a farmer would study a cow or a horse, and shivered. The Federation Navy needed to stomp on the pirates, hard. Perhaps, after the war, the corrupt governors would be deposed and Hobson’s Choice could be invaded and crushed.
“This way,” Uzi said. He led them towards a small bar. There was no music coming from inside, thankfully. “I suggest that we all have a drink here before you go back to the ship.”
Roman said nothing as they found a table and ordered drinks. The bar seemed to be marginally civilized, although the waitress was topless and had the tired expression of a person who had seen too much too young. The scars covering her breasts and arms made Roman look away in a hurry. He studied the drink she placed in front of him, but decided not to try it. A pint glass of foaming green liquid didn’t look particularly appetizing.
“May I join you?” a new voice asked.
Roman looked up to see a man who was blatantly out of place, wearing a black business suit and tie even in the heat. He was a man who didn’t want to remain unnoticed, he realized. He wanted the planet’s inhabitants to know who he was, and why.
“You’re off the Wildflower, are you not? A free company ship?”
“That we are,” Uzi said in a bored tone. He’d warned them that there might be a “chance” meeting with a recruiter and, if so, they were to keep their mouths shut. Roman was happy to obey.
“My unit just worked out our last contract,” Uzi continued. “And who might you be?”
“I am Devon,” the man said. “My employers have a particular interest in hiring men of the free companies.”
He reminded Roman of the man who’d tried to sell him a used aircar. There was something greasy about him. But there was an odd sort of contempt behind the man’s smile that didn’t add up; what was this man doing here?
“And we happen to be in need of a new contract,” Uzi said. He pulled out a chair for Devon and waved to the waitress. “Another beer for my new friend here, love!”
Devon settled himself down with the grace and poise of a visiting aristocrat slumming it among the common herd. Roman was privately surprised that the man had lasted so long on such a lawless planet, but perhaps he had the money—or connections—to keep him alive. If he was willing to make an approach to a ship no one had seen before, at least as a mercenary ship, he was clearly rolling in cash.
Or perhaps he was an idiot. There was no way to know.
“Thank you, my friend,” Devon said with a rather sardonic smile. “I’ll get right to the point. What do you have to offer my employers?”
Uzi pretended to consider it. “I would be more interested in knowing what you can pay us. There are plenty of possible employers out there looking to hire combat veterans. My crew and I were on Paradise, and several of us were on Romulus during the civil war. We’re not exactly desperate for cash, you know.”
There was, just for a second, a brief flash of anger on Devon’s face.
“Nor are my employers,” he said evenly. “They are prepared to offer very competitive rates to any starship crews or groundpounders that are prepared to sign up with them. They will even throw in a limited budget for repairs and spare parts, or even training if you feel it necessary. And there may be other incentives, should you perform well.”
“I see,” Uzi said. “And who might we be fighting?”
Roman saw his expression alter, slightly. It was a good offer, perhaps too good.
“Ideally, you won’t be fighting anyone at all,” Devon said.
Uzi didn’t bother to hide his disbelief.
“If it does come down to a fight, your exact roles will depend upon your capabilities,” Devon explained. “You have a light cruiser. You may be asked to escort convoys, or even take part in small actions. You may even...”
Roman listened with carefully-hidden amusement as Devon and Uzi bartered. He’d learned a great deal over the past few years about the economics of mercenary service. Mercenaries weren’t cowards, far from it, but they were often reluctant to risk their ships in direct combat. An even fight, particularly against the Federation Navy, might see those valuable investments destroyed in battle. They tended to prefer groundside actions, where their valuable starships wouldn’t be at risk.
And that raised the question of just who Uzi and his team would be working for. The obvious answer was one of the warlords, yet Roman wondered if that were actually true. There was something about the whole arrangement that puzzled him. The two warlords might have been at daggers drawn over the last few weeks—the raid on Tranter had been repaid by a raid on Marx, which had led to another raid, and another—and yet, there was no sense of urgency. Devon was bartering carefully, rather than desperately, as if he had all the time in the world. Or it could all be an act.
He looked up sharply as a pair of hulking green aliens advanced into the bar. They both wore nothing more than loincloths and weapons bandoleers, each one carrying a full-sized plasma cannon on their backs. The aliens were known for serving as mercenaries and enforcers for the criminal underworld, although they were rarely seen near the Core Worlds. They were followed by another alien—a cross between a human and an octopus—and several humans, all of whom looked tired and worn.
Uzi paid them no attention. “You want, then, for us to go into your service without knowing precisely who we may be serving? Do you suppose we are that trusting?”
Devon smiled. “You will be paid a formidable retainer,” he pointed out, with surprising calm. “And even if the cause doesn’t come to blows, you will be paid combat rates.”
“Doubtless,” Uzi said. “And what happens if our noble benefactors refuse to pay?”
“We will place the first year’s worth of wages in an escrow account for you,” Devon said. He made a show of consulting his watch, and then looking over towards the newcomers. “I have little more time. Will you accept the contract?”
Uzi made a show of considering it. “Subject to a get-out clause, yes,” he said finally. “I will have to consult with my senior crew, and then I believe that we are yours.”
* * *
“Well,” Uzi said, when they were back onboard the shuttle. “Did you find the trip enlightening?”
“Yes,” Roman said. “And what, exactly, did it gain us?”
Uzi smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes.
“Here’s where we part ways,” he said. “My crew and I take the Wildflower and accept the contract. Whoever is hiring so many mercenaries—and it isn’t either of the warlords—will eventually be revealed, at which point we get the information back to the Federation. The information should help the Federation Navy deal with the problem before it is too late.”
“You’re going to be alone...” Roman frowned.
“Not a problem,” Uzi assured him, as the shuttle took off and climbed into the sky, heading for the captured ship high overhead. “We’ve done it before, captain.”
“If they’re not warlords, then they have to be Outsiders,” Elf said. She’d been very quiet during the meeting on Hobson’s Choice. “I was listening carefully. They want you to train people as well, and the only reason to do that is if they want to build a larger army.”
“Then we need to identify the people behind it before the shit really hits the fan,” Uzi said firmly. “As I will say in my report to the admiral, whoever is behind this is pouring out money like water. That alone makes them a major threat, for who has that sort of money to hire mercenaries on spec? He didn’t even ask for major credentials or references, or even so
me guarantee of our good conduct.”
“Maybe he’s just really stupid,” Elf said dryly. She held up a hand before Uzi could say anything. “I know; wishful thinking.”
“Very wishful,” Uzi agreed, equally dry. He looked over at Roman. “I hope you enjoyed the visit to Hobson’s Choice, captain. That planet is what life is like without the Federation. No law and order, no common decency; nothing but the rule of the strong.”
Roman nodded slowly, privately resolving to convince Admiral Mason—or better yet, Admiral Drake—to pay a call on the system once the war with Admiral Justinian was over. Even if most of the pirates escaped before the Federation Navy could seal off the planet, they’d be able to liberate the slaves and shut down the fences. The pirates would need time to regroup. Perhaps by then the Navy would be able to provide more escorts to civilian shipping.
He clung to that thought as they returned to Midway, remembering the slaves and how the pirates had acted. Whatever it took, he swore to himself, he would return with the Federation Navy behind him. Destroying the pirate operation would be worth the price.
Chapter Thirty-One
With the increasing return to aristocratic rule by a political elite—the Senate—arranged marriages have become far more common. The prospective partners get very little say in the matter as the arrangements are made by the parents after careful considerations of the advantages of the match. It is perhaps not surprising that High Society also has the greatest level of adultery and divorce in history.
-An Irreverent Guide to the Federation, 4000 A.D.
Earth/Sol System, 4095
“But I don’t want to marry him!”
Lady Tiffany Eleanor Diana Katherine d’Artagnan faced her father, Senator William d’Artagnan, and pushed all of her determination into her words. “I don’t know him, I don’t want him and I am sure as hell not going to marry him!”
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