by Rick Partlow
“That is unfortunate,” she said harshly, her hand tightening on her glass.
Lee winced. “She was about to call in a raid and have us all arrested, but she trusted the wrong man and never got to make that call. That gives us time, but not much. I need to know if things are imminent. If they are not, we need to grab as many recruits as we can and go find a secure location to hide until we can move forward with our part of this. If there is not much longer to wait, we can hold out where we are, perhaps with valuable hostages such as General Kage. We might even make a move into the city.”
Ari nodded slowly. Lee was performing well. He’d had his doubts, particularly on the flight from South America.
“I’m not authorized to tell you anything about the timetable,” the woman said, shaking her head. “And I don’t know, even if I were.”
“Then find out,” Lee ground out through clenched teeth. “Get authorized. Or I swear, I will find a hole and pull it in after me and that is the last you will hear of me. I will not be a distraction for you…I will not sacrifice good men and women to make things easier for your bosses. If you treat me as a valuable ally, you will have a valuable ally. If you treat me as a disposable flunky, you will have nothing.”
“Calm down, Lee,” she said soothingly. She sighed with resignation. “Give me two hours, then check the messages on our dead drop. It will be one word: ‘go’, or ‘stay.’ If it’s ‘go,’ then we’re looking at more than two weeks. That’s all I can do.” She didn’t wait for an answer, just downed her beer with one gulp and stood up. “Wait ten minutes before you leave,” she instructed him, heading for the door.
“Did you grab her ‘link signal?” Ari asked Roza as the woman walked out into the dark street.
Roza checked the tablet she’d been holding under the table. “Yes. It’s spoofed and anonymous, obviously, but it took the Trojan and it’s broadcasting the ping. I can’t say how long it’ll be before she enters a secure facility and they block it down, but we have her for now.”
“Doesn’t matter if we lose the ping,” he said, grinning. “I know who she is.”
Roza glanced up at him, startled. “You do?”
“She’s Helenne D’Annique,” he informed her. “She was the First Officer on the Patton, Admiral Patel’s ship during the war. I was on the ship as a Marine; she always struck me as a cast-iron bitch. I don’t know where she’s been the last five years…but I know how to find out.”
“Well, isn’t this interesting?” Ari mused, rubbing his chin unconsciously as he stared at his tablet screen. It had been over an hour since the meeting at the bar and the three of them had made their separate ways back to the hotel, a working-class place in a cheaper area of town that wasn’t that scrupulous about accepting anonymized accounts. Ari was seated in a chair while Lee and Roza huddled around the desk terminal, watching the dead drop account for a message.
“You got something?” Roza asked, moving to the chair to look over this shoulder.
“D’Annique resigned her commission not too long after the war,” he replied, summarizing the Fleet Intelligence dossier on the woman that he had been reading. “She lived off her savings and half-pension for a year until she was hired by a small security firm here in Houston…which pays her somewhere on the order of ten times her military salary, and is, coincidentally enough, a very, very indirect subsidiary of Republic Transportation multicorps.”
“Szar,” Roza cursed in Hungarian. “This is so above my pay grade.”
“Yeah,” Ari agreed, sighing. “This is going to be complicated. I think I’m going to have to call Major Stark and get some backup.” He twisted around to look at her. “Unless you have some GIS assets you trust?”
“We are a small department,” she lamented, shaking her head. “And this is not what we do…well, not what we have done. There are a handful of undercover inspectors such as myself, two Direct Action platoons and that’s about it. Most of the inspectors are offplanet at any given time.”
The hotel room’s doorbell chimed and three heads snapped around as one, pistols jumping into Ari’s and Roza’s hands. Ari went to the small viewer embedded in the wall next to the door and saw a tall, rangy figure in a flowered shirt and tourist shorts standing out in the hallway, his features obscured by a broad-brimmed hat and sunglasses. He looked at Roza and shook his head. She returned the motion and moved to the other side of the door, handgun at the ready, while Colonel Lee ducked behind the cover of the desk. Ari touched the intercom button.
“Yes?” was all he said.
“Open the fuckin’ door so I can take off this stupid hat,” the man said. Leaning into the camera, he slipped off his glasses and lifted the hat momentarily and then put them back on.
“Holy shit,” Ari breathed, laughing softly. He reholstered his pistol and waved Roza back as he released the door lock and palmed the panel to open it. The man slipped inside quickly and shut the door behind him, taking off his hat and glasses.
“Hey Captain Shamir,” Tom Crossman said casually as he gave the room a quick once-over. “Love the new face. Inspector Kovach.” He nodded to the woman, who was staring at him curiously, her gun still in her hand. Crossman’s gaze halted on Colonel Lee, who was slowly emerging from behind the desk. “Oh, there you are, Colonel…I thought for a second they’d dumped your body somewhere.”
“Not to offend,” Roza said, “but who the hell are you?”
“He’s Sergeant Tom Crossman,” Ari told her.
“The Tom Crossman?” she asked, doing a double-take.
“Sweet suffering Jesus,” Tom muttered, rolling his eyes. “And this,” he waved a hand at her, “is why I can’t do undercover work. Fucking movie. Hell, I couldn’t even go out in public here without this shit.” He gestured at the hat and glasses he’d thrown down on the bed.
“Tom,” Ari interrupted, “as sorry as I am for the burdens of fame and as glad as I am to see you…what are you doing here?”
“Making sure it’s safe,” he replied with a shrug. He touched a button on his ‘link. “Bring her in,” he said, then palmed the door control.
The door opened and Shannon Stark strode inside, flanked by two of Tom’s recent graduates: a competent-looking, stocky woman with spiky black hair and pale skin and a tall, long-legged young man with sad, dark, hound-dog eyes. All three were dressed in casual civilian clothes, although not quite as casual as Tom Crossman’s.
“Ma’am.” Ari greeted to her as the door closed behind them.
“Ari, can I ask what the hell you’re doing in Houston?” Shannon said without preamble. “The last thing I heard from you, you and Inspector Kovach were going to arrest Colonel Lee.” She eyed the Colonial Guard Colonel, who was standing beside the desk. “I see the plan has evolved.”
“Before I answer that, ma’am,” he said, “just for my own peace of mind, how did you find us? And why are you here? In this city, I mean…you didn’t follow me here, did you?”
“We’re following up a lead,” she said. “We…” she shrugged. “We managed to get a line on the man who killed Glen Mulrooney. We got ahold of his ‘link, his accounts, everything. It was all anonymized and encrypted and bounced around, but our netdivers managed to trace some of his money to an account that we know---but can’t prove---is connected to a security firm here in Houston,”
Roza shot a glance at him and he nodded.
“We were in town following up,” Shannon went on, “when your ‘link pinged in the city. It’s an anonymous ‘link, but we issued it and we can track it. So here we are. Your turn.”
“Ma’am, we turned Colonel Lee…I made him an offer of a new identity for his cooperation. As the alternative was not desirable, he accepted and left a message for his contact to meet him here.”
Realization came into Shannon’s eyes. “A-ha. And I’ll bet that contact works for a security firm with ties to Republic Transportation?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ari replied. “And it’s better than that…or possibly wor
se. I know who she is. It’s Helenne D’Annique.”
Shannon’s eyebrow rose. “The same one that was the First Officer on the Patton under Admiral Patel?”
“She got out about five years ago and started working for Lone Star Security a year after that,” Ari told her. “It was pretty sudden, from what the file says…she got back from some diplomatic mission to Aphrodite and boom, resigned.”
Tom Crossman and Shannon Stark looked up at that, Crossman’s eyes narrowing.
“Let me see that file.” Shannon held out her hand and Ari passed her the tablet. She shook her head as she read it. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered. She looked up at Tom. “It was the same trip, the one Dominguez was on.”
“Dominguez?” Roza repeated. Her eyes widened. “You mean Vice President Dominguez?”
“Oh, shit,” Ari muttered, sitting down heavily on the bed.
“I think it’s time,” Shannon said slowly and thoughtfully, “that we find out just who was on that mission…and what the hell happened out there.”
“Whatever you are going to do,” Colonel Lee spoke up from the desk, where he was staring at the monitor, “you do not have long to do it.” He looked up at Ari and Roza with the expression of a man watching a traffic accident unfold in front of him. “The message has been posted. It says ‘stay.’”
Chapter Eighteen
Jason McKay shook his head, trying to clear it of the acrid taste of yellow and the sweet smell of sideways and of the maddening sensation that he was nonexistent and yet omnipresent all at once. He looked at Mironov, who was strapped in beside him on one of the acceleration couches behind Admiral Patel’s command station on the bridge of the Sheridan. The Russian was humming to himself impassively, as if he’d just travelled across town on the overhead tram.
“And you really get used to that?” McKay asked, disbelief in his voice. This was the third jump the ship had made through the wormholes and it seemed a dozen times worse than the first. Worse still, there were many more to go: Mironov knew many of the gate locations, but he had not been trusted with which ones led to the Protectorate headquarters world of Novoye Rodina, so their plan was to explore what they could of the Protectorate wormhole matrix and hope the physicists could make map it out and predict where the gates were located.
“Eysselink drive field activated,” the ship’s Helm announced, drowning out whatever answer Mironov might have given. “Navigation systems are analyzing the star patterns…we should have a best guess for our location in a minute.”
“Sensors are up,” Tactical reported, as the ship’s viewscreen began to overlay a sensor projection on top of the new starfield they’d found on the other side of this jumpgate. “We have an F-class star, looks like three terrestrial planets, two medium-size gas giants and maybe an ice giant out at extreme range. We are currently within a small asteroid field between the last of the terrestrials and the first gas giant. No gravimetic radiation present, no contacts, no sign of habitation.”
“Maintain active gravimetic scans,” Patel ordered. “Secure from battle stations. Helm, you have the coordinates for the next gate; take us there at one g acceleration.” Looking at the Admiral, McKay felt a bit of admiration for the way he seemed to be taking all this in stride; as if using a multimillion ton, multibillion dollar starship as an experimental test bed for opening alien-created wormholes with waves of warped space-time and then travelling outside the damned universe was something he did every day.
“Mr. Mironov,” Admiral Patel turned in his chair to address the Russian, “what are the odds of us encountering Protectorate military forces in these systems? You told us that Antonov maintains mining bases and listening posts in some of them, but this is our second with no sign of occupation.”
“It is difficult to say,” Mironov answered after McKay quietly translated the question for him. “We did not have the ships to keep them in every system; only key hubs like Peresechenie---that is what we called the system where you fought us. But there are patrols, and sometimes cargo ships to take supplies in and minerals out.”
“So, they’re not likely to be waiting in ambush for us as we pass through the gate,” Patel surmised, nodding with satisfaction.
“That depends,” Mironov added quickly, as if he didn’t want to give the Admiral the wrong idea. “Normally, no…but if one of the ships in Peresechenie managed to send a message through the gate before the battle, then it is possible you may face opposition.”
“Even then,” McKay pointed out, “they wouldn’t know we can get through the wormholes, so they wouldn’t be looking for us here.”
“That is true,” Mironov conceded with a nod. “Your only danger would be if…”
“Sir!” Lieutenant Commander Pirelli, the Tactical officer exclaimed. “We’re getting a gravimetic energy surge about twenty thousand klicks out consistent with a wormhole gate opening!”
“Der’mo,” Mironov cursed.
“Battle stations!” Patel snapped. “All hands secure for emergency acceleration! Helm, four g acceleration toward that gravimetic signature. Tactical, I want to be on him before he knows we’re here…target him as soon as we’re in range.”
“Emergency acceleration engaged,” Lt. Sweeny, the helmsman announced and McKay felt himself pressed back into his couch by 310 kilos of his own weight.
“Sensors indicate one ship coming through,” Pirelli reported, grunting the words out through the strain of the acceleration. “About the size of one of their converted cargo ships. Data coming up onscreen.” The ship’s computer created an icon of the enemy vessel on the tactical projection on the main screen, along with a graphic representation of the gate.
“That…” Mironov struggled to breath, face contorted with pain. “That is not gate I knew about.” He wheezed with effort. “Do not know where it goes.”
“Roger that sir,” Sweeny confirmed. “It’s a lot farther out than the one we were heading for.”
“Konstantin,” McKay asked, trying to make his brain work despite the pressure, “what would he do if he sees us? Fight or run?”
“A lone ship will run,” Mironov told him. “Back to somewhere he can report it.”
“Admiral,” McKay said, “my advice is to slow down, let her see us…fire a shot that won’t kill her…then follow her.”
“I see where you’re going, McKay,” Patel interrupted him. “Helm, take us back down to one g acceleration.”
“One g, aye,” Sweeny confirmed and McKay enjoyed a deep breath as the crushing weight lifted off his chest.
“Tactical,” Patel went on, “Target the ship’s communications array with the lasers and fire immediately on maximum effective range.”
“Targeting communications antennae, aye,” Pirelli said. “They still haven’t spotted us…they’ve activated their fusion pulse drive, accelerating towards the area of our entrance wormhole at one g. We should be in maximum effective laser range in ten minutes, sir.”
“Good thinking, Admiral,” McKay complimented, nodding his appreciation. “If his long range comms are down, he’ll have to lead us right to their concentration of forces.”
“They didn’t give me these stars for my good looks, McKay,” Patel said mildly, eyes still fixed on the sensor readouts on the main viewscreen. The computer had put up an avatar of the enemy ship based on sensor scans: it was a boxy, utilitarian insystem freighter design, either stolen from a Republic colony system or copied from a stolen ship, but various protrusions and extensions told a story of jury-rigged armor and weapons pods.
“Obviously not, sir,” McKay commented drily, watching the ship advance toward them. “Since I’m not a General yet.” Patel glanced at him sidelong, then laughed quietly.
“I’d debate you on that,” the Admiral said, smiling, “but Major Stark is a very good argument for your case.”
“Shannon is way out of my league, sir,” McKay admitted, “which she reminds me every day.”
“Uh, oh,” Pirelli spoke up, “I think
she’s seen us. Her drive just cut off…she’s doing a turnover, I think. Still two minutes to laser range, and if the drive is in the way, we’re not going to have a shot.”
“Sound alarm,” Patel ordered, “emergency acceleration five g’s immediately.”
“Oh wonderful,” McKay muttered and then he couldn’t breathe.
The seconds crawled by as elephants tap-danced on his chest, until from somewhere far away he heard Pirelli croak: “Ship in range…”
“Deactivate drive,” Patel said in a voice like a snarling dog. “Fire!”
The crushing weight of five gravities of acceleration analog lifted immediately, causing a collective gasp among the bridge crew, and he could see the computer simulation of the laser batteries streaking across the space between them and the Protectorate freighter even before Pirelli said, “Lasers firing now.”
Flares of heat blossomed on the port side of the Protectorate ship as the laser pulses sliced into it, and then they and the ship were blotted out by a flare of fusing hydrogen as the enemy ship’s fusion pulse drive fired.
“Drive field reactivated,” Sweeny announced as the lasers ceased firing.
“He’s heading back for the wormhole,” Pirelli said. “Pushing three g’s…can’t keep that up for long unless he can refuel on the other side.”
“He’ll be doing another turnover soon,” Patel predicted. “They need to kill some velocity to place the bomb to reopen the gate.”
“Sir,” McKay interjected, “he’s going to be suspicious if we let him get away too easy. Let me talk to him, Admiral.”
“Communications,” Patel addressed Lt. Junior Grade Mandel, “hail the enemy ship, wide signal and put Colonel McKay on.”
“Aye, sir,” Mandel said. “You’re on, Colonel,” he said after a moment.
“This is Colonel Jason McKay of the Republic Spacefleet Starship Sheridan,” McKay said in Russian. “Kill your velocity and prepare to be boarded or you will be destroyed.” He turned to Lt. Pirelli and quietly slipped into English. “How long before they can reach the gate?”