The Last Flight of the Argus

by E. R. Torre

  Only a few of the Hotel guests took the news in stride. Most could not hide their alarm. Like B’taav, they too were trapped on Titus. They, like B’taav, realized they were prisoners of Lieutenant Daniels, the Wake, and, now, the Dakota. One a cruiser, the other a full-fledged battleship.

  Given this new reality, the Independent knew no one would dare make a run for the Displacer with him on board. Not even for all the credits in the Homeworlds.

  B'taav's prison was fortified.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  After sleeping a few hours in an uncomfortable fold up bed, B’taav exited his room and wandered Titus. The corridors were quiet this day, as the full realization of military control hit everyone. The citizens of Titus were willing to accept the Wake’s arrival as part of the routine process of checking into the Sandstorm's destruction. They were even willing to accept when this interest turned to their Displacer. But with the arrival of the heavily armed battleship and the shutting down of their only means out of Erebus, a palpable sense of paranoia prevailed.

  Something bad was happening, and no one was sure exactly what.

  B'taav's wandering led him back to the Jackal Bar.

  Clients within the place were sparse. The scavengers huddled in small pockets and their conversations consisted of barely audible whispers.

  B’taav sat at a barstool. Dave Maddox served a few cups of beer and some rum to a group of patrons before slowly making his way to the Independent. When he was within earshot, he laid down a glass of water and whispered: “Go to the back room.”

  B’taav took the water and nodded ever so slightly. While Maddox focused on other clients, B’taav made sure the area was free of Daniels’ men.

  When he was satisfied this was the case, he walked to the door leading into the rear of the bar. It slid open automatically, revealing a small room furnished with a wooden table and a set of chairs. B’taav approached the table and sat down. The door he entered closed.

  “Here I am,” B’taav muttered. He took another sip of water and sat back.

  And waited.

  Fifteen minutes later, Maddox entered the room.

  “What is Lieutenant Daniels doing?” Maddox said.

  “Good morning to you, too.”

  “I’m not in the mood for jokes. What is Lieutenant Daniels doing?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Fine. Then what is he capable of?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear, but he’s got a goddamned battle ship parked in front of our Displacer. It is our only way out. Every single one of its weapons is pointed directly at us. We may be in the middle of nowhere and many of us may not have much of a formal education, but we’re not blind and we’re not stupid. How far is he willing to go?”

  “That depends on what he’s after.”

  “He wants you.”

  “Certainly. But he isn’t doing all this for me.”

  “I saw what he did to your ship. I saw the look on his face the other day. He wants you. Bad.”

  “If I were his primary target, he would have taken care of me a long time ago. Trust me, I don’t merit all this fuss.”

  “Why haven’t you tried to leave?”

  “I have. I’ve talked to almost every pilot I could find on this station. There were a few willing to smuggle me on their ships, but they demanded more cash than I had, or could get. Not only did Daniels destroy my ship, he also froze all cash transfers from the Homelands. Anyway, I hoped to secure funds through some alternate means, but when the Dakota’s arrived, that pretty much shut me down. There isn't a pilot willing to take me around the block, much less past her.”

  “Did you try the pilots on Deck—?”

  “Come on, Maddox. You know there are very few pilots still willing to risk a run at the Displacer. The only ones that are are secessionists who hate the Epsillon military more than their ex-wives and in-laws combined and pilot some of the shittiest crafts this side of the Argon Nebula. To get past the Dakota, they’d have to run their ship's engines much hotter than they're capable of. So hot they might explode. Like Kelly Lang’s ship did.”

  Maddox tensed.

  “Easy, Maddox,” the Independent said. “I've still got ears and our good Lieutenant’s interest in Lang’s death is a hot topic. When Daniels first arrived, his interest was Lang, not the Displacer. Now he’s changing his tune completely and is focused entirely on the Displacer. People pick up on that.”

  “So they do.”

  “Look, when I got here I didn’t care what the military was up to. I had work of my own and, in retrospect, probably should have kept a lower profile. Unfortunately, things didn’t work out and now I'm trapped. So I figure it’s time I learned exactly what's going on here. Tell me, Maddox: Why is Kelly Lang’s death so damn important to the Epsillon military?”

  Maddox’s lips tightened until they became pale white slits. B’taav shook his head.

  “If I can tell you know more about Lang than you’re willing to admit, imagine what Lieutenant Daniels thinks. He may be an angry, vengeful little bastard, but he’s also a member of the Epsillon Elite. The military doesn’t give membership into that club to just anyone.”

  “What will he do?”

  “If I was looking into Lang's death and had a battle ship backing me up, I’d do exactly what Daniels is doing. First I’d lock up the Displacer, so that no one gets past me. That way, all potential suspects can't skip town, so to speak.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I'd announce some kind of temporary fix to the Displacer’s energy cells. A minor miracle, but one with limits: Only a few people and ships will be allowed through it each day.”

  “What does that accomplish?”

  “Use your head, Maddox. The Displacer's temporary fix is a great way for Daniels to get rid of everyone he knows isn't involved in Lang's death. Everyone here will be anxious as hell to get back to the Homeworlds and as far away from the Dakota’s guns as possible. Daniels' men, of course, pick and choose who gets to leave while thoroughly searching each vessel that goes. In time, whoever or whatever he’s looking for will be left behind on Titus.”

  “And then?”

  “What do you think? Erebus is a dead end. If Daniels doesn’t find who or what he wants, there’s nothing to stop him from planting a bomb in the Displacer and setting it to blow the moment the Wake and Dakota head out. Whoever is left behind—”

  B’taav let out a bitter laugh.

  “Whoever’s left behind with me will be trapped on this station with no ship and no way home. In the unlikely event that someone in the Homeworlds should miss us, it would take them seventy five years using the fastest cruisers available to make it back here without a Displacer. I doubt anyone would bother.”

  B’taav stepped past Maddox, pausing for a moment at the door leading back into the bar.

  “That’s how far I think Daniels is willing to go.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The following day moved slowly.

  B’taav again ventured into the depths of the Titus station, alternately searching hard to reach areas and interviewing whatever pilots he might have missed the first time around. There were none.

  Hours later, the Independent was back in his hotel room. He brooded on his situation. Military patrols, at first few and far between, were becoming a strong presence in Titus.

  At a little after three in the afternoon, another announcement was sent through the station’s intercom:

  ““Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Titus administration speaking,” the female voice began. “The following is an update on the condition of the Erebus Displacer. The crew of the EMC Wake and Dakota has determined that damage to the Displacer is more severe than originally thought. Technicians have measured a significant surge within the energy containment units. While this surge threatens the integrity of the Erebus Displacer, technicians note it only occurs when the unit is activate for periods longer than one hour during each solar
day.”

  “Because of these unique circumstances, Lieutenant Daniels, the acting commander of the Wake, has ordered the evacuation of the Titus station. A lottery will be set up to allow ships to return to the home worlds free of charge. All ships given clearance to depart must meet the absolute minimum specifications for space flight. Due to the nature of the energy containment surges, all cargo must be left behind and all ships and crew will be subjected to a search to insure this is the case. This is for your safety. Those scheduled to depart and were given military clearance will be instructed on their exact window of opportunity to leave. They are expected to be prepared and ready to go when their time comes. Those who are unable to make their schedule will be sent to the back of the line.”

  Outside in the hallway, just past the curtain door, B’taav heard people talking excitedly. They were ecstatic they could leave the now militarized Erebus space.

  “All vessel Captains are now ordered to report to the main flight deck to begin the lottery and receive their printed evacuation procedures. Good luck.”

  A few hours later, the first lottery winners were announced and their vessels were scheduled to depart that evening. B’taav knew a long line of ships would be hovering just outside the Displacer by that time, ready to go.

  It wouldn’t be long now.

  The next day, B’taav returned to the Jackal Bar. Although only two rounds of evacuations were completed since the day before, the place was almost empty. Almost everyone with a ship was waiting in their crafts, ready to go.

  B’taav proceeded to the bar's counter and motioned to Maddox. The bartender laid down a dark drink. It fit the mood.

  “Daniels is doing what you said he would.”

  “I wish he didn’t,” B’taav replied. He held his drink up. “Here’s to you, my friend. Get out while you can.”

  B’taav took down the drink in a single swallow. He laid the cup on the table and lowered his head. After a while B’taav turned from the bar’s counter and examined the place. A couple of scavengers huddled here and there, their eyes turned inward. Another scavenger, this one alone, read the digital clock over the bar and headed out.

  On the opposite side of the bar, B’taav saw a yellow haired woman sitting alone at one of the narrower tables pressed up against the back wall. It was the same woman he spotted the day he confronted Lieutenant Daniels. Today she sat in the thick shadows. Her eyes were covered with a pair of dark glasses and she gazed in his general direction.

  B’taav returned her stare, but was unsure because of the glasses if she was indeed looking directly at him. After a while, he gave up. The Independent laid a credit note on the bar’s counter and stumbled back to his room and its stiff bed.

  B’taav returned to the Jackal Bar the following evening. The Independent's face reflected growing signs of helplessness. He motioned to Maddox and ordered Pesan. Maddox delivered a cup of the volatile liquid, but B’taav shook his head.

  “The whole bottle,” he said.

  Maddox gave the Independent what he asked and watched with little surprise as the man took it down. He had nothing better to do as there were almost no other clients to take care of. In another couple of days, he figured, there wouldn’t be anyone left on Titus.

  No, Maddox thought as he watched the Independent drink himself into oblivion. That isn’t entirely true.

  Maddox eventually left B'taav when a pair of new arrivals showed up. After serving them, he returned to his spot behind the counter. At times he looked B’taav’s way, but his eyes never lingered. After their last conversation, Maddox did not appear interested in talking to the Independent anymore.

  Still, the bartender did his job. After a while, he offered B'taav another bottle of the liquor. The Independent took down half that bottle in less than twenty minutes. Afterwards, his movements slowed and his already sour mood dampened.

  At a little after seven, the yellow haired woman with the dark glasses entered the bar. She was dressed entirely in black, as she was the last two times. She walked past B’taav and sat in the same table she took the day before.

  Her icy-cool looks and calm demeanor intrigued the Independent. He stole half-hidden glances at the woman and left the remainder of his liquor untouched. After a while Maddox approached her table and whispered a few words. As he did, he looked at the entrance of the bar, as if weary of being caught in her company.

  At ten hundred hours, two of Daniels’ men entered the Jackal Bar. By that time there were a little over a half dozen customers milling about. The flights out of Erebus were done for the day, and those few that remained in Titus decided to have one last drink before the next day’s scheduled departures.

  Daniels’ men produced a computer pad. The younger of the two read off several names. Those listed were scheduled for the next evacuation. After their announcement was read, the men left.

  Maddox nodded to the yellow haired woman. She was quickly on her feet and following Daniels’ men.

  B’taav considered the silent interaction between two. Having nothing better to do, he decided to follow her.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  B’taav shadowed the yellow haired woman through three separate corridor levels before somehow losing her. Some fifty feet ahead of him were Daniels’ men. They were oblivious to either tail.

  B'taav stopped.

  Slowly, carefully, he turned. The object of his pursuit stood behind him. Her right hand was hidden in her jacket pocket.

  “There aren’t many who can take down that much Pesan and still walk a straight line,” the woman said. She pulled the hand out of the pocket just a little, enough to reveal the fusion gun in its grasp. “You don’t look at all drunk. Not now, anyway.”

  B’taav kept still. His eyes looked her over, determining the woman’s strengths and weaknesses, as surely as she did the same with him. After a few seconds of uneasy silence, she spoke.

  “Move. Nice and easy.”

  B’taav did as told. The woman fell in place behind him. By then, Daniels’ men were long gone and the corridor before them was empty. B’taav continued walking until he reached an intersection.

  “To the right,” the woman said.

  B’taav walked down that corridor until the woman told him to stop. To B’taav’s left was a bulky dock door. Visible through the window at its side was a small cargo craft attached to this docking berth. Worn black letters printed on her side identified her as the Pilgrimage. The woman tapped a series of buttons in the paneling beside the dock door. Air rushed into the vacuum beyond. In seconds a green light over the door flashed on and the security locks disengaged.

  “After you,” the woman said.

  B’taav pulled the bulky door open and entered the dock corridor. The door leading into the Pilgrimage opened automatically as they approached. B’taav stepped into the spacecraft. He found a small, rectangular room with smooth metallic walls. An emergency kit was affixed to the far wall and beside it was a solid stormite door.

  “Have a seat,” the woman said. As she spoke, a gray slab slid out two feet from the far wall.

  B’taav approached the slab and sat down. The cargo craft’s outer door closed and sophisticated clamps locked into place. The Independent heard a low hum and felt vibrations coming from deep within the ship. The Pilgrimage’s engines were warming up.

  The yellow haired woman stepped before B’taav and pulled the fusion gun out of her jacket pocket. She kept it pointed at B’taav while she removed her dark glasses. Revealed was a pair of stony brown eyes.

  “Bad enough I’m threatened by the Epsillon Capital Guard,” B’taav said. “At least they’re on home turf. What brings a Phaecian Inquisitor across the border?”

  The woman did not reply, although B’taav thought he saw the ghost of a smile flicker on the corner of her lips.

  “You know me?” she asked.

  “Not at first,” the Independent admitted. “Although there was something familiar about you. Now that we’re face to face, it’s obvio
us. Pleased to see you again, Inquisitor Cer. We met ten years ago. At the Pan-Pacific Business Convention.”

  “I remember the event. I don’t recall you.”

  “I was just another face in the crowd.”

  “That I doubt. What were you doing there?”

  “Our Epsillon business personnel were… uncomfortable around Phaecian delegates.”

  “And even more uncomfortable around Inquisitors?”

  “I was hired to watch you guys and make sure you didn’t take any liberties with the hosts. Fortunately for everyone, you behaved well.”

  “Either that or we did what we wanted and you weren't the wiser. For all you know, you failed miserably at your job.”

  “Always a possibility,” B’taav admitted. “I don’t mean to pry, but if I remember correctly, your personnel file stated you were in good standing within the ranks of your fellow Inquisitors. Yet ten years later, here you are, in a rundown station at the edges of our mutual Empires’ greatest trash heap. Are you still an Inquisitor, Cer? Or have you retired to pursue a lucrative scavenger job?”

  “I read up on you, too, B’taav. Congratulations on keeping such a low profile. Most files referencing your…work…have you listed as a ‘John Doe’, yet you are an Independent of some note among the business elites. The best I could determine, your career began shortly after the Tamarin campaign, some thirty years ago. You were listed as a soldier in that campaign, though given the enormous amount of casualties and the poor record keeping at the time, it is possible you were never a part of any battle, but rather used the event to launch your –how can I put this?- most recent identity?”