Conflagration 1: Burning Suns

by Lisa Wylie

  The pilot met them at the hatch. “Thank you,” Keera bade him.

  “My pleasure,” he replied with a smile. “Have a good day, Madam Secretary.”

  Certain this was the last time anyone would call her by that title, Keera mustered a bright, professional smile and nod as she stepped off the shuttle. Bronwen followed, offering a laconic farewell, and fell into step with her as they exited to the main concourse. “Well, here we are. I really didn’t think we were going to make it for a moment back there,” she confessed in a relieved tone, her shoulders slackening as she relaxed a little.

  “We should still have a few hours’ grace before the bolo advisory really takes effect,” Keera replied. “I was as thorough as I could be about clearing your record.”

  Bronwen snorted. “Not that. Captain Kangaroo, our so-called pilot. Some bumps? I bit my tongue three times. Jesus, I haven’t hit a runway that hard since… you know what, actually, I’ve never landed a bird that hard, not even the time I had my engines shot out and had to do a controlled crash onto a carrier deck. I’m amazed he didn’t completely fuck the landing gear.” She rubbed at her temple with the heel of her hand. “I already had a goddamn concussion,” she complained irritably. “I didn’t need the top-up.”

  Her professional outrage was so genuine, so palpable, that Keera couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, how about you drive for the next leg?” she suggested.

  “Damn straight,” Bronwen agreed. She looked around, getting her bearings. “All right, secret agent, this way. All we have to do is get to the Fortune, and we can get out of here. I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty damn sick of Terra right now.”

  “Lead on,” Keera invited. The feeling was most definitely mutual.

  The walk to the industrial docking bays was short. Ganymede’s space port existed primarily to handle worker transfers and specialist shipments of equipment or non-standard supplies—the giant gas mining platforms that tapped Jupiter’s immense resources had their own dockyards for regular cargo. Bronwen led Keera to one of the smaller docks, and the changeling couldn’t help but hold her breath as the door slid open. Now she’d find out whether she’d made a good call, or just the last mistake in a series of errors that would culminate in her body being dumped someplace discreet.

  There was a ship.

  Keera let out a heartfelt sigh of relief as Bronwen practically bounded through the gate. “Oh, baby, are you ever a sight for sore eyes,” the human cooed happily. She gave the hull a quick but thorough once-over then turned to Keera with a triumphant smirk. “Well, Madam Secretary, here you go. The Bronwen’s Fortune.”

  Keera wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting of Bronwen’s alleged ship, but it certainly wasn’t the vessel before her, all sleek lines and graceful curves that suggested speed, agility, and elegance. Most cargo freighters had boxy, squared-off hulls to maximise their shipping capacity, being less concerned with aesthetics than profits. “She’s, uh… pretty.”

  Bronwen gave her a surprised but genuine smile. “Thank you. Her hull’s a beauty, but she’s a working ship, so she’s pretty functional inside. I hope you can manage without all of your creature comforts.”

  “I’m tougher than I look,” Keera retorted.

  “I didn’t realise being a spy could be so cushy,” Bronwen goaded as she set off down the dock. “Makes me think maybe I was in the wrong line of government work.”

  Keera ignored the jibe, pointing at the motif stencilled on the hull, just below the pilot’s canopy. “Isn’t that the same pattern as your tattoo?” she asked.

  “It is,” Bronwen confirmed, but she offered no further explanation. “C’mon, secret agent. We’re supposed to be making a getaway, not discussing the finer points of hull decals. The quicker we clear dock control, the happier I’ll be.”

  ***

  Bronwen hadn’t been lying about the ship’s interior being functional. Most of the fittings appeared to be bare metal and plastic in varying shades of grey. The cockpit was crammed with instrumentation, and the co-pilot’s seat was hard and unyielding.

  The human seemed to have forgotten about her as she readied her ship for departure, her attention completely focused on completing the tasks and checklists displayed on the haptic interface above the main flight console. She had relaxed considerably since setting foot aboard, clearly feeling safe in her own environment. “All right,” she murmured eventually, more, Keera suspected, to herself than to her passenger. “We are good to go.” She flicked a quick glance in Keera’s direction. “Buckle up. As you no doubt noticed on the way in, Ganymede’s atmosphere can be a bit choppy.”

  Keera fastened her seat restraints obediently. As she did, she felt a deep rumble vibrating through the deck under her feet as the ship’s engines started to spool up. “All systems green,” Bronwen murmured. “Running lights, check. Artificial gravity engaged, atmosphere pressurised. All airlocks and external seals secured. Main generator online. Decoupling from external power supply…”

  The litany was hypnotic, almost poetic, and Keera found herself drifting as she listened to the human work, a reverie that was rudely interrupted as the launching thrusters powered up with a tumultuous roar. Bronwen grinned at her. “Here goes nothing,” she said as she hit a button on her interface. “Ganymede Control, this is the DSV Bronwen’s Fortune, requesting departure clearance.”

  “Stand by, Fortune,” came the terse response.

  Tension gripped the back of Keera’s neck, tightening her shoulders and setting her heart thumping as the silence stretched. Had they been quick enough? Would they be allowed to leave?

  Ten seconds.

  Fifteen.

  “Come on, come on,” Bronwen muttered, licking her lips and leaning forward to look out of the viewport.

  Twenty.

  Keera couldn’t stop fidgeting. What’s taking so long?

  Thirty seconds.

  “Fuck,” Bronwen growled, rubbing at her chin. “Come on…”

  “DSV Bronwen’s Fortune, this is Ganymede Control. Sorry about the wait, we had a little glitch with the scan. The sky is clear, and you are go for launch. Your departure beacon is Lima Foxtrot Niner. Safe travels.”

  “Copy that, Ganymede Control, beacon is set, Lima Foxtrot Niner. See you again sometime. Fortune out.”

  Keera slumped back in her seat with a relieved sigh. “I thought we’d had it for a moment there.”

  “Yeah,” Bronwen concurred, sparing the monosyllable as she concentrated on her boards. The Fortune’s thrusters howled, and Keera was pressed down in her seat as the ship muscled its way into the air. It took bare minutes to clear the atmosphere, and when they did, Bronwen pumped her fist in triumph. “Yes! Now we just need to get off the beaten track a ways, and we’re all good.”

  After about thirty minutes, with the ship coasting past Neptune and out into empty space, Bronwen set the autopilot and gestured aft with a jerk of her thumb. “I’m going to get out of this costume. You can wait in the wardroom. I don’t want you in here unsupervised.”

  Keera followed her aft to the communal crew deck, and used the time to look around, identifying the medical compartment on the far side of the main hatch, and beyond that, the washroom and galley. The hatch in the aft-most bulkhead of the kitchen was locked down, but she guessed it likely led to the engine room. Returning to the wardroom, she found Bronwen already waiting for her, dressed down in a pair of olive combat trousers and a black cotton vest with a sidearm prominently strapped to her thigh. She’d loosened her hair, and wiped the makeup away to reveal her tattoo. The effect was remarkable—the simple pattern of dark red lines drew the eye like a magnet, obscuring the more subtle details of her features. Which was no doubt the point.

  “So, there’s something I’d like to ask, if you’re done snooping,” Bronwen began, leaning against a locker with exaggerated casualness.

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, it’s a little complex. I might not get it all out in one go, so I need you
to be quiet and listen. Can you do that?”

  Keera frowned at her. “Whatever it is, I’m sure that…” She cut off as the freighter skipper held up a hand, a dark scowl tugging her brows down into a hard line.

  “That was a yes/no question, Naraymis.”

  Keera bridled at the tone, but she mastered her sudden spike of temper as she noticed up the tension in Bronwen’s voice. The Marauder woman was on edge. “Yes,” she acknowledged tersely

  Bronwen huffed out a short breath. “OK. Here’s the thing. I’d like to know what the fuck’s going on.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The human shook her head sharply. “Don’t. Just… don’t try that “I’m so superior” bullshit, all right? You’re smarter than me, I get that, but I’m not stupid.” Bronwen pulled her sidearm from its holster and pointed it steadily at Keera’s chest. “Let’s start again,” she said with heavy deliberation. “Are you paying attention, secret agent?”

  Keera nodded warily.

  “Good. I would like to know what the fuck is going on,” Bronwen repeated. “You’ll understand, I hope, that my trust in the motives of any of you shape-shifting bastards has been worn somewhat thin by recent events, and that you’re going to need to make this an exceptionally good explanation, because as far as I can see, I don’t need your credits badly enough to take risks with you. Now, have I made my request crystal fucking clear, Miss Naraymis?” Bronwen snorted a sardonic laugh. “If that’s even your name?”

  Keera started to step forward, and Bronwen thumbed the safety catch on her weapon. “Uh-uh, you stay over there. I’ve fought enough shifters in my time to know how goddamn fast you are.” She gestured with the pistol. “Sit your ass on that couch and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Keera sank into the seat behind her obediently, slowly raising her hands. “I’m not going to try anything,” she promised. “You don’t need the gun.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Bronwen retorted. “Now, I asked you a question.”

  “You did,” Keera replied. “You were quite clear. I’ll tell you what I know, but unfortunately, that isn’t much.”

  “That’s too bad for you.” Bronwen settled back, lowering the gun slightly so that the reflexive shot would wound rather than kill. “Start talking.”

  “My name really is Keera Naraymis. I’m a field agent for the Consortium’s Diplomatic Service.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re a spy. I’d figured that much out.”

  Keera fought the temptation to roll her eyes. “Two years ago I was placed on active duty on Geonova. My assignment was to infiltrate the Marauder government and ensure that certain security measures regarding our border treaties with your people remained in force.”

  “Why would you bother with that?”

  “What do you know about the Sentinels?”

  “Not much.” Bronwen gestured vaguely with her pistol. “They’re terrorists, or freedom fighters. Depends who you ask.”

  “Terrorists,” Keera specified, and the Marauder smirked.

  “Yeah, well, you’re a government spook, of course you’d say that. So, you were working against them?”

  “Yes. My most recent objective was a political deal to make sure that Marauder security forces could continue to detain Changeling citizens without charge if suspected of criminal activity.”

  Bronwen whistled. “Ballsy, considering that it could have ended in a delicious irony.”

  “It was necessary. And my cover was as near airtight as it could be.” Keera met Bronwen’s gaze steadily. “Hard as it might be to believe at this moment, I’m good at what I do.”

  “Yeah, you had me fooled. You really do sound like you’re from Oceanhill.”

  “I am,” Keera reaffirmed. “I did grow up on Marinaris.” She sighed softly. “Anyway, I was almost done with the assignment. A few days before the treaty was signed, my boss at the Exterior department sent me to Earth in advance of a new round of talks with the Terrans.”

  “Talks about what?”

  “Dealing with the recent Reaver incursions on the outer boundaries of their territories and ours… yours.” Keera shrugged. “Once that was done, Secretary Naraymis was going to have a fatal accident, and I was to be extracted.”

  “So what does Solinas have to do with any of that? Why’d he come after you?”

  Keera spread her hands helplessly. “You’re not going to like this, but I honestly don’t know. There are two possibilities. One, he was a Sentinel, sent to get rid of me and stop the treaty from going ahead. Or two, I’ve somehow become a security risk, and the Diplomatic Service decided to terminate me. Dead agents tell no tales.”

  “That seems like a particularly shitty employee loyalty scheme, even for government work,” Bronwen wisecracked.

  “Yes, but I knew the risks.” Keera sighed. “One thing you have to understand about my people is that we plan long-range, over generations. Individuals are deemed expendable in pursuit of the greater goal.”

  “But you didn’t like the idea of being expended, did you?” Bronwen remarked astutely.

  “No,” Keera admitted, shame heating her cheeks.

  Bronwen studied her in silence for a moment. “What greater goal?” she asked eventually. “Galactic domination?”

  “Galactic peace.” Keera cocked her head to one side. “We don’t start wars, Captain Bronwen. We divert them, turn them back if we can. If the races of the galaxy aren’t at each other’s throats, it’s better for everyone.”

  “Well, that all sounds very noble,” Bronwen observed dryly.

  “It’s not. It’s profoundly dirty work, sometimes, but the outcome is worthwhile.”

  The human regarded her impassively for a moment. “Back up a little for a minute. You grew up on Marinaris? You were really raised in Marauder space?”

  “Yes. My parents moved there shortly before I was born, to a small town near Gold Harbour. My sibling still lives there. It’s a training strategy, part of our long-range planning. We seed families all over the Assembly so children who grow up in alien space are potential recruits. It makes us more effective as specialists who skinshift to one species—we already know the culture and customs, and we can honestly reference our childhood experiences. It makes us more authentic, harder to catch.”

  Bronwen stared at her. “Wow,” she muttered after a moment, “that’s breathtakingly cynical.”

  “It is,” Keera concurred, “but it’s not without its advantages. My parents were incentivised for moving, and Marinaris is beautiful. I loved my home, and I had a happy childhood—it never felt contrived.”

  “Lucky you,” the human grunted. “So are your folks still there?”

  “No.” The old grief thickened in her throat. “My mother died last year, and my father died three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bronwen offered, and she sounded sincere. “You were obviously close.”

  “We were,” Keera agreed cautiously. The human didn’t sound so angry any more, either, and the silence stretched for a moment.

  “Yeah, so,” Bronwen said eventually, “you really don’t know why Solinas wanted you dead? And you don’t know why he sold me out, got my friend killed?”

  “No, no I don’t.” Keera suddenly felt drained, overwhelmed by her situation all over again. “I have no idea who he was. I’d never even heard his name until you mentioned it. I was trying to figure it out, and I was hoping you knew something that’d help.”

  “Nope. I hired him to do a job, no questions asked, and he fucked me over.” Bronwen was glaring again, but Keera sensed that that anger was no longer directed solely at her. “Of the two possibilities you mentioned, which is the more likely? In your opinion.”

  Keera considered it. She’d thought the situation through in depth during her hours of insomnia last night, and come to half a conclusion. “I’m inclined to suspect he was a Sentinel, simply because I don’t believe one of our agents would have botched things so badly. And they don’t usually in
volve other people in their work. But I can’t be sure. As I said, I have to try to figure that out.” She sat forward a little. “That’s everything I know,” she declared earnestly. “I can understand why you’re angry, and suspicious—I would be too. You have no reason to trust me…”

  “Damn straight.”

  “But put yourself in my position. I have no guarantee that you won’t just take my money and then kill me anyway.”

  “I don’t break deals,” Bronwen declared flatly. “Nor am I a professional liar by trade.”

  “Oh, please,” Keera objected, “you really expect me to have faith in your integrity? Breaking deals is unthinkable, but theft and extortion are perfectly acceptable? Tick tock, secret agent?” Keera met Bronwen’s gaze with a challenging stare, gratified when the human looked away first, a faint pink flush staining her cheeks. “Let’s neither of us pretend we’re paragons of virtue. Yes, I lied to you, and yes, I would have used you to get what I wanted without thinking twice. But you’ve no grounds to be judging me for that, since you did the same damn thing as soon as the opportunity arose.” Keera took a slow, controlled breath—losing her temper wasn’t going to help. “I guess we don’t really have to trust each other, since this is simply a business transaction. I’m happy to keep my distance for the whole trip. You can lock me in if you really feel you have to. But would you please put the gun down?”

  Bronwen regarded her for a long moment, lips pursed, brows drawn down, and then lowered the weapon, slotting it neatly into its holster. “All right,” she agreed, her tone clipped. “Confine yourself to the medical locker and the galley for the rest of the trip and we’ll get on fine.”

  “Understood.” Keera nodded to the medical compartment. “At least I can catch up on some sleep in there.”

  “Swell.” Bronwen turned away, heading for the cockpit.

  “Captain?” Keera called after her.