“Probably,” said Taren. “We haven’t finished running diagnostics yet.”
“My orders are to get you back to Calaskar safely,” said March. “If need be, we can get your entire crew on the Tiger. There are twenty of them?” Taren nodded. “It’ll be tight, but we could fit them all on my ship. But we should talk to the local branch head first.”
“Very well,” said Taren, glancing at her waiting crew. “We’ll tell the others that the Ministry of Security hired you, that they received warning of the attack and sent you to escort us back.”
“Think they’ll believe you?” said March.
Taren blinked, then flashed him a grin. “I think so.” She sighed. “They’re scared out of their minds. The first time someone tries to kill you is always the worst, isn’t it? Funny how you can get used to things.”
Without waiting for an answer, she turned and headed back towards the waiting crewers. The men straightened up at her approach. Orson scowled at March, but not before he turned an annoyed glance in Taren’s direction. Maybe the young man was in love with her. Or maybe they were lovers, and he resented March’s presence.
“As you have probably guessed, this is Captain Jack March,” said Taren. “He just saved our lives out there.”
“It was good timing, Captain,” said a middle-aged man in a crewer’s jumpsuit. He was on the paunchy side and had the weary air of a man used to dealing with other people’s problems. “Name’s Lars Bauer. I’m head of the video production team from the Royal Calaskaran Media Service.”
March gave the man a quick handshake. “Pleased to meet you.”
“And I am Dr. Patrick Orson,” said Orson. “Professor of Xenoarchaeology at the Royal University of Calaskar.”
March shook his hand. Orson tried to bear down hard on March’s hand, but it didn’t work. Even with his hand of flesh, March could have broken Orson’s fingers without trying hard.
“Associate Professor,” murmured Bauer.
Orson gave him a glare.
“Eh?” said March.
“Dr. Orson is an Associate Professor,” said Bauer. He smiled, and March got the impression that Bauer couldn’t stand Orson. It must have been a long trip to Xenostas. “He’s not tenured.”
“I see,” said March, which was the politest way he could think of to say that he didn’t give a damn.
“Captain March has been hired by the Ministry of Security to get us home,” said Taren. “Evidently the Ministry received warning of the attack and hired Captain March to escort us.”
Bauer snorted. “You drew the short straw, eh?”
“Seems so,” said March.
“We’re scientists,” said Orson. “We are engaged in important scientific research. Who would attack us?”
“They were a mercenary group called the Graywolves,” said March. He looked to see if the name drew any recognition from either Bauer or Orson, but neither man blinked. “They’re banned from operating from Calaskaran space, and they do a lot of dirty jobs. Assassinations and ambushes and slaving and the like.”
“We’re scientists,” said Orson again, as the word were a magic totem to ward off harm. “Why would anyone try to attack us?”
“Maybe they were up for tenure and wanted to get rid of another Associate Professor,” said Bauer.
Orson glared at him and drew breath to start a tirade.
“That’s enough, both of you,” said Taren. Her voice was mild, but both men fell silent. “We’re all in this together, and the only way we’re getting back to Calaskar is together. I’m going to go arrange for repair and resupply. Lars, I’d like you to take charge while I’m gone. Get the crew started on a damage assessment and the computer on diagnostics.”
Lars grunted. “Hyperdrive’s probably toast, and we’ll have a devil of a time finding replacement parts in this dump.”
“Probably,” said Taren, “but we’ll be better off when we know.”
Orson’s scowl remained unwavering. “And where are you going?”
“I’m going to see about getting us home safely,” said Taren. “The Security Ministry gave Captain March options for our escort home, and I’m going to review them personally after Ronstadt Corporation screwed us over.”
“Is that safe?” said Orson. “This March fellow doesn’t look trustworthy.”
“If he wanted us dead,” said Taren, “all he needed to do was let those Owls blow up the Shovel. I’ll be back as soon as I can manage.”
Without waiting for another word, she turned and walked off.
March looked at her, back at Bauer and Orson, shrugged, and left. He caught up to Taren a few seconds later.
“Do you actually know where you are going?” said March.
Taren winked at him. “Not a clue. But guys like Orson, you can’t show any weakness in front of them.”
“No,” said March.
“Was I going in the right direction?” said Taren.
“As it happens, yes,” said March. “We’ll go around the corner and take an autocab. The head of the local branch of our organization is a man named Constantine Bishop, and he owns a bar and restaurant called the Emperor’s Rest. You’ll be safe enough there.”
“You seem eager enough to have me meet him,” said Taren. She was a good six inches shorter than he was, but she had no trouble matching his stride.
“Bishop knows everything that happens on Rustbelt Station and most of what happens in the surrounding systems,” said March. “We badly need more information. Our mutual organization thought it would be an assassination. It wasn’t. That was either a hijacking or an abduction. And Ronstadt Corporation has been subverted, and Ronstadt Corporation runs the security on Rustbelt Station.”
Taren let out a long breath. “Then it wasn’t an accident. They were part of it.”
March nodded. “Or they were bribed or coerced. Either way, they aren’t reliable. Mercenaries never are.”
Taren gave him a faint smile. “Said the privateer.”
“I would know.”
March stepped in front of an autocab, a boxy plastic thing on four wheels that made a faint squeaking noise against the polished rock of the floor. He and Taren got inside, and March instructed the computer to take them to the Emperor’s Rest in the commercial concourse. The autocab informed him that the distance would be 2.32 kilometers of corridor and the charge would be ridiculously high. March paid the computer, and the autocab rolled into motion.
“We could have walked,” said Taren.
“Yes.” March watched the cargo handlers and starship crewers going about their business as the autocab rolled forward. “But the noise from the electric motor will make it harder for anyone to overhear us. I think you have to consider the possibility that someone on your ship betrayed you to the Machinists.”
“It occurred to me.” Taren gazed at him. He was suddenly aware of her proximity, of how the cramped autocab made it necessary to sit only a few inches from her. The thought annoyed him. It was a distraction from his mission. “But it’s not like this expedition was top secret or anything. It’s been listed on the university’s network pages for months. I advertised for graduate students to accompany me a year in advance. I filed proper flight plans from here to Calaskar. Anyone with a modicum of computer skill would know exactly where I was going and when.”
March nodded. “Orson seems to have a personal dislike for you.”
Taren laughed. “He propositioned me once, and I turned him down. But that isn’t the real reason he dislikes me. He doesn’t think I do real archaeology. He thinks, to use his favorite term, that I’m a ‘celebrity slut’ and that the university only keeps me on because I’m good PR.”
March blinked. “He actually called you that to your face?”
Taren grinned. “No. He was haranguing some graduate students and didn’t realize that I was standing behind him. I thought he would have a heart attack when he noticed me. But he’s a gelatin. No spine at all. Besides, he was on the ship when they attac
ked, and he could just have easily been killed when that missile hit the drive section.”
That was a good point. March had feared Taren might have a Machinist sympathizer aboard her ship, but it was just as likely that she did not. He suppressed a grimace as he thought about the complicated nature of his mission. Taren was traveling with a large crew and was a relatively well-known figure. That made her an easy target for any potential assassins.
Of course, it seemed the Machinists wanted her alive. In a grim way, that was a bright spot. It was always harder to take someone alive rather than simply shooting the target in the head.
“The sooner we get you off Rustbelt Station…” said March.
“Me and my people. They’re in danger because of me,” said Taren. Another woman might have said that with an air of guilty drama. From Taren, it was a simple statement of fact.
“You and your people,” said March. “If Ronstadt Corporation has been subverted, or if there’s a Machinist sympathizer in their hierarchy, the enemy has a strong advantage. The sooner we get you and your people off Rustbelt Station and away from Ronstadt, the better chances you’ll have.”
“All right.” Taren thought for a moment. “You’re not just a privateer they hired for the job. You’re an operative. Alpha level?”
“Yeah.” March watched the passing foot traffic in the corridor. They had almost reached the commercial concourse.
“Then you’re really not a dashing privateer who flies around saving scientists, and has a girl in every port?” said Taren.
March blinked and looked at her, unsure of how to answer. He suspected she was testing him. That only made sense, given that they had just met and she was in a dangerous situation.
“No,” he said at last.
“Ah, well,” said Taren. “You do seem the type, given that you just saved all of our lives.”
“It was the mission,” said March.
“What happened to your hand?” said Taren. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
March glanced at his left hand. He wore a glove and a bracer over his metal fingers and forearm, though with his coat he could only see the glove. He rolled his shoulder, ignoring the ache.
“It’s cybernetic,” he said. He offered a thin smile. “Given the reputation of the Machinists, it’s best not to show it public unless necessary.”
“No,” said Taren. “I suppose not. Sometimes people assume things they should not.”
“They do,” said March. “And in our organization, that’s dangerous.” He shook his head. “I made that mistake myself with…”
“With what?” said Taren.
Something in her gray eyes cut into him.
“With you, I admit,” said March, unsure of why he was speaking. He didn’t like the sensation. He didn’t like talking in general. It was often a liability for an Alpha Operative of the Silent Order. “I didn’t expect that you would handle a deadly crisis with such a calm head. I expected…”
He expected her to take offense as soon as the words left his mouth, but to his surprise, she laughed.
“You expected a celebrity slut?” she said.
“Something like that, yeah,” said March.
“Oh, good,” said Taren.
“Good?”
“That’s an advantage when working for our organization,” said Taren. “It’s good to be underestimated. I work very hard at being underestimated.”
“Which is why you don’t mind Orson spreading rumors,” said March.
Her gray eyes gleamed. “Even idiots can do something useful for our employer’s cause, can’t they?”
The autocab turned a corner and came to the commercial concourse.
Shops lined the walls, shops that catered to men accustomed to violence and interstellar travel. One shop sold hand weapons, everything from plasma guns to portable missile launchers. Another specialized in ship repairs and upgrades. March saw three different bars, and two brothels, one specializing in human women, and another in androids of various degrees of accuracy and configuration to cater to every perversion. Armed guards stood at every shop, watching the crowds with cold eyes.
“Well,” said Taren, looking at a sign that displayed the list of services available at the brothel, “that’s not something you see on Calaskar.”
“It is not,” said March. The autocab came to a stop, and they got out. The machine rolled away, no doubt intent on picking up another passenger. “This way.”
He pointed to the doors to Constantine Bishop’s restaurant.
“The Emperor’s Rest?” said Taren, reading the sign over the doors. She blinked and then smiled at him. “You know, if you wanted to take me to dinner, you could have just asked. All this effort seems like too much.”
March blinked and looked at her, unsure how to respond.
“A joke,” said Taren.
“Yes,” said March. “I am sorry. I don’t have much of a sense of humor.”
“Well,” said Taren. “There are worse qualities in a man.”
Again, he wasn’t sure what to say. He was attracted to her, and to his irritation, the attraction was affecting his thinking, though he was never eloquent under the best of circumstances. March dismissed those thoughts. He had a mission, and he was going to fulfill it. All other considerations were of no importance.
“I might have some of those worse qualities,” said March.
Taren frowned. “Which ones?”
“That was a joke.”
Taren blinked a few times and then smiled again. “See? You’re catching on.”
“This way,” said March.
He led the way through the front doors and into the Emperor’s Rest. Like most of the rooms in Rustbelt Station, the restaurant had been carved from the rock of the asteroid. Metal tables and chairs dotted the dining room, about half of them occupied with crewers and cargo handlers eating lunch. A long bar ran the length of the wall, and waitresses in tight skirts and T-shirts carried out trays of food from the kitchen. March had been in a hundred restaurants like this in a hundred systems, and he was familiar with the guards at the door, the cold eyes of the waitresses, and the fact at least some of the men at the tables and the women in tight skirts would be informants for the intelligence services of the various starfaring human nations and alien races.
Of course, since the local head of the Silent Order ran the place, all the spies in the Emperor’s Rest would report to the Silent Order.
March headed towards the bar, Taren walking alongside him.
“Captain March!” said the woman tending the bar. She had hard eyes, but a pretty smile beneath shaggy blond hair, and the tight uniform and skirt fit her well. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Hello, Anne,” said March.
“No girl in every port, is that it?” murmured Taren, amused.
“She’s not…” March grimaced, shook his head, and walked to the bar.
“Everyone’s talking about that firefight,” said Anne. “That was you, wasn’t it? I thought I recognized your ship on the footage.”
“Yeah,” said March. “Bunch of mercs hired to do a hijacking. I got here just in time. You probably guessed that I’ll want to talk to Bishop right away.”
“Figured that,” said Anne. “He went to talk to some people in Heitz’s office to figure out what was going on, though I bet he’ll get the whole story from you. I’ll message him that you’re here.” She produced her phone from beneath the bar and hit a few buttons. “Can I get you anything while you wait?”
“Just coffee, please,” said March.
“Me, too,” said Taren. She produced a credit note and put it on the bar. “On me, please. Change is yours.”
Anne grinned and made the note disappear. “Be right back. I like your girlfriend, Captain March.”
March opened his mouth and closed it again as Anne vanished into the back room. He looked at Taren and saw her carefully keeping a straight face.
“Girl in every port, right?” said Taren.
March sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his right hand. “She’s not. I don’t have a girl in every port. I don’t have a girl in any port.”
Taren raised her eyebrows again. “Really? That’s tragic. Personal inclination, I suppose.”
“No,” said March, irritated with himself. How the hell had Taren gotten under his skin so easily? “It would be unprofessional. I have a job to do, and that’s that. Anything else is a distraction.” He leveled a finger at her. “And I just saved your life. You don’t get to tease me about anything.”
Taren only smiled.
“What?”
“I hope you realize,” said Taren, “what an absurd statement that is.”
March opened his mouth to argue, and then he did indeed realize that it was an absurd statement.
Entirely against his will, he felt himself starting to smile.
“Maybe,” he conceded. “But this is a life and death situation. You ought to realize that. It’s no time for discussing my personal entanglements…”
“Or lack thereof,” murmured Taren.
“There are more important things to consider.”
“Well.” Taren looked at him. For a moment, the cool good humor seemed to drain from her, and she looked tired and sad. “If I hadn’t learned to keep myself calm in dangerous situations, Captain March, I would have killed myself a long time ago.”
“I suppose not,” said March.
She was silent for a moment. “How do you keep yourself calm in dangerous situations?”
March grunted. “Usually by punching things.”
It wasn’t a joke, but she laughed. “I imagine that is rather effective.”
March heard the clank of boots against the deck, and turned as Constantine Bishop, proprietor of the Emperor’s Rest and Sigma Operative of the local branch of the Silent Order, strode into his restaurant.
Bishop was a huge man, nearly seven feet tall, though he was starting to develop a bit of a stoop from spending so much time in cramped quarters. He had ragged blond hair and a bushy beard and wore an odd mixture of clothes – steel-toed work boots, cargo pants, a green silk shirt, and a formal black coat. Beneath the formal Calaskaran coat he had a gun belt wound around his waist, a pistol on either hip. Rustbelt Station was the sort of place where a man could go armed in public without trouble – and the head of the local Silent Order branch was the kind of man who needed to be armed.
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