Starbound

by Dave Bara

  “I didn’t do all that rehab just to go sit in a chair on some beach,” he said. “I’ve got a ship! And I’m here as your taxi ride to Carinthia.”

  Zander strolled over and sat down with us, giving Dobrina a kiss on the cheek that she did her best not to cringe away from, and ordered a beer. Though his appearance was shocking, he was still every bit the crusty navy captain we had known on Impulse.

  “What an ugly place,” said Zander, looking around the restaurant and out the view windows. Then he took a long draught of his beer. He was in the middle of explaining to me about his decision to leave rehab six months early.

  “I can grow a new leg anytime, or get another hundred grafts of newskin,” he said. “I’ll look right and pink then, lad, enough to capture all the ladies’ hearts. But it will take two years to grow back hair and fill in the scar for the eye replacement, and I haven’t got time to do with that business now.”

  I took another sip of my mimosa. “So you put in for active duty and they accepted you?” I asked.

  “Hells no, boy!” he said. “They wouldn’t give me another command, son. Not the way I was broken,” he said. “I’m a privateer now. I cashed in every chit I had in the Union Navy to get a Functional Discharge, and they finally gave me one. I work for a trader from Pendax named Admar Harrington. He’s rich as the devil, and as ambitious, too.”

  “There wasn’t anything in the Carinthian Navy for you?” asked Dobrina. “I was told our commissions would return to the home navy in the event we left Union employ.” Zander looked pensive at this. He eyed Dobrina and then me.

  “I had my reasons for not rejoining the Carinthian Navy, missy. They may just be the suspicions of an old man, or they may be more,” he said. Dobrina looked concerned at this, as was I, so I pressed him.

  “What do you mean, ‘suspicions of an old man’?” I asked. He waved me off.

  “Forget I said anything.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” I said. “You see, I’m not just a navy commander anymore, I’m also a diplomat on his first mission and a royal duke of the Cochrane House of Quantar, so you’ll just have to tell me, because in the real world I outrank you.” Zander gave me his best pirate growl before drawing deeply from his beer again. Dobrina took another drink of her mimosa but stayed silent.

  Zander sighed. “Just rumors, my boy. Nothing to be concerned about.”

  “You’re evading the question,” I said. “Spill it. Need I remind you I saved your life at Levant?”

  “No need to remind me of my debts,” he bristled.

  “Captain, it would be helpful to know what we’re getting into,” chimed in Dobrina. Zander sighed as if resigned to his fate.

  “Very well. Rumors mostly, about Carinthia. Rumors of commanders being replaced at the highest levels. Rumors that some in the Carinthian Navy are not all that happy with resources being allocated to the Union. I usually give it no thought, but every loyal Carinthian ship captain I know and trust is now taking his ships in-system through High Station Three. Not Two, and certainly not One,” he said. Three was the most distant of the Carinthian High Stations, in orbit around a colorful gas giant two light-hours from primary Carinthian jump space.

  “Why just Three and not One and Two?” asked Dobrina. Zander turned his direct attention on her.

  “That’s where the command replacements are supposedly being made, One and Two. One is in direct orbit over New Vienna. Two is stationed at the edge of the Habitable Zone. That leaves Three as the only remaining outpost for Loyalist commanders. And those Loyalists are staying well clear of One and Two and even Carinthia herself. And High Station Three is no longer being resupplied by Carinthia. They’re relying on supplies from Quantar, Levant, and Earth. My new boss on Pendax is anxious to help as well,” he said.

  “You keep mentioning Loyalists. Loyal to whom, or to what?” I asked.

  “Loyal to the Grand Duke Henrik, son, and to the Union,” said Zander.

  I sat back in my chair, suddenly sobered by the conversation.

  “Lucius, we know that Impulse was infiltrated from within, by Tralfane, the Historian. He could not have acted alone. There had to be help—”

  “From inside the navy, the Carinthian Navy. I know,” Zander said. I watched concern play across his mottled face. I weighed my next question heavily before asking it.

  “Could this be a sign of revolt within the Carinthian military? Revolt against the Union?” I asked. Dobrina’s head snapped around at this.

  “It could be. It could be a lot of things. It could be nothing,” with this Zander tried to smile a reassuring smile, but it didn’t work on either Dobrina or me.

  “Why didn’t Wesley give us this intelligence before we left Quantar?” I asked.

  “He’s doing that right now, lad, through me,” replied Zander.

  “You work for Wesley too?” asked Dobrina.

  “In some way, we all do, Commander,” he said. Then he sat back and tried to appear relaxed. “In any case, the mission is on. Anything you two can discover about the situation on Carinthia will be well appreciated by the higher-ups, I’m sure.”

  “So now we’re spies,” I said. Zander shrugged.

  “I’m sure the grand admiral wouldn’t call it that.” Once again I found myself resenting Wesley’s using me for his own purposes. This time though, he had included Dobrina, and that rubbed me the wrong way.

  “Oh cheer up, you two. It won’t be so bad. You’ll get to go to state dinners and then probably spend one afternoon answering innocuous questions asked by a bunch of naval flunkies. Things could be worse,” he said.

  “When do we leave?” I asked.

  “We’re taking on stores for Three right now. We’ll be ready for shove-off at 1700 tonight. Dinner in my cabin an hour later, if you please.”

  “But, Captain—” started Dobrina. He cut her off.

  “It’s a full day to traverse from the Carinthia jump point to High Station Three at safe cruising speed. Plenty of time to talk then, lass,” he said, then leaned forward. “But for now, let me tell you about my ship!”

  “Please do, sir,” I said, humoring him. He smiled again.

  “I’ve got a brand spanking new Wasp, the Benfold.”

  “Wasp?” asked Dobrina. Zander shrugged.

  “It’s just what we call them. They’re really line frigates, designed for running military and commercial cargo for the navy.”

  I sat forward again at this. I was intrigued. “What’s her drive?” I asked.

  “Two FTL spools and a Hoagland,” said Zander. “But she packs enough firepower to turn this rock to ashes and she’s faster from point-to-point in normal space than anything in the Unified Navy!”

  “Crew?” asked Dobrina.

  “Thirty-two,” he said. “Three commissioned officers from Pendax, half a dozen private security and a staff sergeant. The rest commercial spacers. We run pork and beef from Pendax to Candle, plus a good lot of your Quantar scotch and shiraz out to Levant and back home. We pick up absinthe and schnapps for the Carinthians in the Union Navy and spread them out among the Union High Stations. We carry military cargo, too. The odd missile battery, anything that will fit in our hold, which is a lot. And if we see anything amiss while we’re out in the Great Dark, we have full reign to stop and investigate for the navy.”

  “Sounds like a nice life,” I said. He shrugged again, and raised his beer stein.

  “It beats fighting off all the widowed hausfraus,” he said. Then we clinked our glasses. Dobrina’s eyes betrayed her concern to me as we drank.

  I smiled politely, and wondered what we were heading into.

  To High Station One

  Benfold was a cozy ship despite her unexpected size. She was indeed shaped like a wasp, with the cargo holds encompassing her belly while the hyperdimensional drives and Hoagland Field generators
were held out well to either side, like wings. She was also a full two-thirds the length of a Lightship and in some ways superior in performance, especially trimmed as she was now in normal space, with low mass in her spacious cargo holds. But she was not so elegantly appointed as a Lightship, with the majority of her interior space reserved for carrying cargo. Nonetheless, her forward third held our sturdy crew well, with an oversized mess hall and a smaller room whose walls Zander could draw closed to create a proper dining room.

  It was almost a full day out in normal space to the jump point from Quantar to Carinthia, then another full day’s trek to High Station Three, limited as we were by the Carinthian Navy’s in-system speed regulations. We had already made the turn inbound and Dobrina and I were getting some rest when Zander’s call from the bridge woke us both. I checked my watch. Still two hours to High Station Three.

  “Cochrane here,” I said into the desk com.

  “Just got the call from Carinthian Naval command,” came Zander’s raspy reply. “They want us to skip our scheduled stop at Three and proceed directly to One first, so I can drop you off. Then back out to Three to deliver my scheduled cargo. And they’re assigning us an escort.”

  “What kind of escort?” I asked.

  “By displacement, a Carinthian Navy destroyer. I’ll let you decide what kind of company that is.”

  I looked to Dobrina, who was already up and dressing.

  “We’re on our way,” I said.

  We arrived at Benfold’s command deck a few minutes later. Flying as we were under the red and gray standard of Pendax afforded us some measure of protection, even exception from any importune requests from our escort. The Carinthian destroyer flew side by side with us, to give us a gentle nudge away from our filed flight plan. It was clear that we were not to even consider a stop at High Station Three. Nonetheless, as we passed close by Three on our new vector Zander received numerous greetings from his many friends in the Carinthian Navy by radio and even longwave packet, which was unusual. If there was any sort of warning in those private packets, Zander kept it to himself.

  The command deck of Benfold was tight and cramped, and really no place for visitors. Only five seats were available, including the captain’s, which Zander wasn’t giving up. It was really more of a C-and-C, buried as she was deep inside the ship’s fo’c’sle, away from the engines and cargo holds. I was reminded again of the fanciful design of the Lightships, with their archaic conning towers with the bridge on top, like an Old Earth sailing vessel. It was a symbol of the openness and freedom of the explorer, a central theme in Lightship design. Such fanciful touches were a direct result of the Historian’s gift of the all-enveloping defensive Hoagland Field, given to Quantar and Carinthia more than a decade ago.

  We stood on either side of Zander, assessing the situation.

  “They’ve asked us to increase our speed,” said Zander. “Obviously they want us to get in-system faster than our original plan.”

  “To what end?” asked Dobrina.

  “Who’s to know?” replied Zander.

  “No chance they could just be a friendly escort?” asked Dobrina.

  “Unlikely with as much offensive hardware as those destroyers carry. A scout or corvette could do the job easily enough, without the show of force,” replied Zander.

  “The Carinthian government has known we were coming for weeks. Why this kind of act?” asked Dobrina.

  “It could be nothing. But it does seem like the powers that be on Carinthia want to show us their fist instead of shaking our hands. I’d take that as a message. Like I said, rumors of unrest in the capital, Commander,” said Zander.

  “Politics aside, can we defend ourselves if required?” I asked Zander. He looked at me sidelong.

  “I’d say yes. They’re guided missile destroyers, pack plenty of wallop, including nuke-tipped torpedoes. We’re much faster than they are. I don’t have as much artillery, but my coil cannons could mess them up right good,” he said.

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” I said. Zander stood, his cane supporting his bad leg.

  “This is my ship, but on this mission I’m under your command, Mr. Cochrane. What are your orders?” he said. I thought about that for a second.

  “Steady as we go, for now,” I said. Dobrina looked up from the tactical board.

  “At this speed I make it around five hours to High Station One,” she said.

  I only nodded in response.

  In the end they asked us, in a way that sounded very much like an order, to fly in close formation, making a heading straight for One. I decided discretion was the better part of valor, so we followed without protest. After slightly more than five hours with our escort, we docked at High Station One, far above Carinthia, her blue-green shine glowing in the dark of space as we looked at her on the main display.

  “Does it feel good to be home?” I asked Dobrina, trying to cheer her. She nodded nervously but said nothing.

  “Watch your back, lad,” said Zander as we stood at the airlock of his cargo bay. “Strange goings on these days.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” I said, not really sure if I believed that. We said our goodbyes to Zander as the Carinthian soldiers on the other side of the air lock tapped three times on our door in staccato repetition. I verified the environment was stable and then reluctantly opened the airlock. A phalanx of six Carinthian military police, or Feldjäger as Dobrina called them, stood facing us on the other side.

  “Commander Cochrane? Captain Kierkopf?” asked the tallest one in the middle. We both acknowledged. “Come vis uz please,” he said in a heavy Carinthian accent. His tone and manner left no doubt that it was an order, even if he did say “please.”

  We followed the commandant of the guard through a nearly empty deck on what should have been a thriving military station. No question that High Station One was buttoned down tight. As we approached a more central hub of the station traffic picked up a bit, looking more like what you would expect from an operating military space station. I got more than one sidelong glance from passing officers and enlisteds. I supposed that my choice of wearing my royal family colors instead of my Union Navy uniform had something to do with that.

  We were guided into an anteroom that could only be described as plush, with soft velvet-covered chairs and a formal sitting area. The Feldjäger were pleasant enough, even though no smiles were on offer, offering us tea and pastries. We ate in silence, avoiding small talk. After about half an hour of this we were escorted into an adjoining, much larger room. It was also done in a rich, formal style, and very much looked to be the type of room that would be used for receiving visiting dignitaries. There were a few servants scattered around the perimeter, but we were offered no further refreshments, nor a place to sit. After about five minutes of this, a man that looked to be some sort of protocol official entered the room and activated a small standing monitor station placed on top of a central podium. Then he came up to me.

  “Your codex please, Sire?” he said. I immediately went to my diplomatic pouch and retrieved a small black box, opened it and removed a metal cylinder from the velvet casing and handed it to the officer. He took it to the monitor and slipped it inside the unit. The codex had been given to me by Perkins back on Quantar prior to our departure. The codex had been used for centuries in the Empire as a way of validating the bearer’s DNA and ancestral history. It confirmed a royal was who he said he was. These were ancient and very formal protocols, but Perkins had suspected I might need it. The Carinthians, it seemed, stayed much closer to the old royal protocols than we on Quantar did.

  After a few moments the cylinder popped back out of the monitor and the officer took it and handed it back to me.

  “Thank you, Sire,” he said with a head bow, then made for the far doorway as if to depart.

  “What’s that all about?” whispered Dobrina. I tilted my he
ad toward her.

  “Just royal formalities. The protocols of the demigods. Nothing for you mere mortals to worry yourselves over,” I said. That got a smile from her despite our obviously stressful circumstances.

  When he reached the doorway the protocol officer opened it and then stood to one side. At that signal a tall man, looking about thirty years old and dressed in a highly decorated Carinthian green military uniform stepped through the threshold and strode purposefully toward us, trailed by the protocol officer. He stopped a few meters away from me and then just stared, as if waiting for something. He reminded me of Serosian: tall, dark hair, but with a slightly rounder face that nonetheless reflected the angular edge of his father, who was undoubtedly the Grand Duke Henrik Feilberg.

  The protocol officer stepped up, placing himself between but not in front of the two of us. Dobrina took a step back away from me. I just waited, perplexed by the whole thing. I was wondering if I would have to start the conversation when the protocol officer thankfully spoke up.

  “Your Highness,” he said to the decorated man, “may I present Peter Erasmus Cochrane, Duke of KendalFalk, Viscount of New Queensland, and heir to the Director’s Chair of Quantar.” Then he turned to me. “Sire Cochrane, may I present to you Prince Arin Feilberg, Duke of New Styria and New Burgenland, Prince Regent of the Realm of Carinthia.”

  “Prince Arin,” I said, bowing from the neck per the protocol Perkins had taught me.

  “Duke Peter,” he replied with no real joy in his voice, making the same bow to me. “Welcome to Carinthia.”

  “Thank you, Sire,” I said, then turned to my companion with a sweep of my arm. “May I present Captain Dobrina Kierkopf of the Unified Space Navy.” At this Dobrina stepped out and did a slight dip, which I supposed was what they called a curtsey. The prince did not move to shake her hand, but simply acknowledged her with a slight nod and a single word.

  “Captain,” he said. She stepped back behind me. The protocol officer took over the conversation again.