by Dan Moren
“So glad you remember me,” said Eli dryly. “And here I was worried that only one of the Brody boys had ever made an impression on you.”
Lucy flounced to Eamon’s side, taking his arm protectively and looking as though she were only a step away from sticking her tongue in Eli’s direction. She might be an adult, but it doesn’t seem like she ever grew up. “I remember a young boy with no interest in actually learning as long as he could get someone to do the work for him.”
Funny, I remember two young boys by that description, but I guess the past ain’t what it used to be. Eli flipped her a mock salute. “Well, I’m thrilled to see all your hard work paid off with a brilliant career that you’ve just flushed down the toilet.” And I know a thing or two about toilets.
Clinging to Eamon’s arm, Lucy’s brow darkened. “There are some things more important than a life of science. This is a wake-up call!” Eli got the distinct impression she was quoting someone and, from the look of her death grip on Eamon’s arm, he had a pretty good guess as to whom.
Eamon’s comm chose that minute to chime and he lifted it with his free hand. “What’s up?”
A woman’s voice filtered out of the speaker, loud enough for Eli to hear. “It’s Quinn. We’ve taken control of security; Keisuke’s locked the off-duty officers in their bunk. According to the console, though, the last two officers are currently escorting the IIS major.”
“Where?”
“Last security log shows them entering your present location.”
Eamon glanced at Lucy. “They must be onboard.” He nodded at the ship through the viewport.
“Station security doesn’t have access to the ship’s internal cameras,” she said with a shake of her head. “Its feeds are only available from inside.”
“Well, lucky for us, that just happens to be our next stop. Quinn, set the timelock on the transport ship’s airlock for—” he looked at Lucy again.
She frowned and consulted one of the floating displays. “Call it a half hour to get onboard and prepped and maybe another fifteen minutes after that?”
Eamon spoke into the radio. “Forty-five minutes. Then regroup with the other teams and head this way. I’ll have Dr. Graham make sure to release the security door for you.” He released the transmit button and a faint acknowledgement crackled through.
“So, Major Shankar’s onboard the ship,” Eamon said, rubbing his chin. “This just gets more and more interesting.”
“He did mention he’d heard a lot about it and wanted to take a look,” said Lucy, looking worried. “Gregorovitch didn’t seem to feel he could refuse the request, so he sent the security team along.”
“Of course not. I’m sure he was most gracious.” He slid the comm unit back into one of his jumpsuit pockets then snapped his fingers at Clark, who was still minding the second cargo container. The big man slid the container over to Eamon, where it coasted to a stop. Eamon touched some controls on the side and the lid popped opened.
Eli’s technical expertise was limited mainly to the mechanics of ships and, even then, it was mostly about basic maintenance. If he’d ever had to replace a drive motivator or retune attitude thrusters he’d have quickly found himself at the mercy of an able technical crew. So, when the cargo container yielded a concoction of wires and metal boxes, it didn’t mean anything to him. It wasn’t until Eamon flipped a switch on the box in the center of the contraption, illuminating a countdown display that he realized precisely what he was looking at.
It was a bomb.
A very big bomb.
Gwen, who’d stepped up next to Eli, wore a wide-eyed expression that he could only assume was mirrored on his own face. “Did you know about this?”
She shook her head slowly, the red curls bouncing. “No.”
How the hell did he get that past the spaceport security? Then again, the other container had been carrying more than a dozen small arms, so it probably wasn’t just a matter of criminal incompetence on the part of Westenfeldt’s security personnel. If Dr. Graham was any indication, Eli suspected the Black Watch had also had somebody inside the spaceport to get them through undetected.
In the end, it didn’t really matter, because now there was a way bigger problem.
Eli sidled over to his brother. “Eamon, can I have a word?”
With a nod to his compatriots, Eamon waved Eli over into a corner of the room.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” asked Eli, lowering his voice and glancing back at the rest of the crew.
Eamon blinked. “What do I think I’m doing? I told you: whatever’s necessary to remind the Illyricans that they don’t belong here.”
“But a bomb that size will destroy the entire facility.”
“So?”
“What about all the people working here? You’re murdering them.”
Eamon’s mouth clamped shut and he pressed a finger firmly into Eli’s chest. “I am not a murderer. The station was already on a skeleton crew because of the Emperor’s Birthday, and Supervisor Tan and his crew are aboard the transport.”
“Which you locked here.”
“Time-locked,” Eamon corrected. “I’m just delaying their trip a bit. In forty—” he glanced at a display, “—two minutes, the airlock will release and they’ll be able to take off and wing their way back to Caledonia, unobstructed. The bomb won’t go off for another fifteen minutes after that, giving them plenty of time to get clear of the blast.”
“What if they don’t leave? What if they decide to come back onto the station and try to stop it?”
“Not my problem. That’s their choice.”
Eli stared at him, then shook his head. “Same old Eamon. Maybe someday you’ll grow up and take responsibility.” He turned to storm off, only to be yanked back by the arm. Eamon wrenched him around, again bringing them face to face.
“Don’t you dare judge me,” he said, quiet ferocity infusing his voice. “You saw Meghann, what the crims did to her. Those people sided with the Illyricans just by being here; they haven’t done a damn thing to stop the Imperium from running roughshod all over our world. They make a bad choice and get blown up as a result? Well, I won’t shed a tear.”
“Jesus, you’re a cold bastard.”
“They made their choice, I made mine. Time for you to make yours, Lije.” His eyes went hard. “You with us or them?”
“Whatever,” said Eli, pulling his arm loose then stalking over to rejoin Gwen. He didn’t respond to either her questioning look or the light touch on his arm.
Eamon took a deep breath, smoothed his hands down the front of his jumpsuit and then, pulling the acting security head’s pistol from his belt, turned to address his crew. “All right, everybody. Listen up. The ship is currently unmanned except for an IIS major and his security escort. Kelly, McKenna, Eli, and Gwennie, you’re with Lucy and me. Ibanez, Clark, Lyngaas, you’ll secure the ship’s engine room. Neutralize any resistance as necessary.”
The crew voiced their assent and proceeded to the ramp at the far end of the room. Once again, it was Lucy who stepped forward to enter a code on the keypad next to the pressure door. It whisked open; beyond it was a white, sterile-looking tent-like structure that led to the ship on the launchpad. They all traipsed through until they came to a round airlock door; Dr. Graham once again unlocked it and the work crew quickly spread into the ship proper, establishing their beachhead.
As ugly as Project Tarnhelm was on the outside, its interior looked more or less like any other Illyrican ship Eli had ever been aboard: the same gray metal bulkheads were riveted into place with, appropriately enough, military precision. The strip lighting overhead cast the same unforgiving blue-white glow. Even the exact same stencils declaimed this part as section B-13 and that as service junction L-27. There was little incentive for the Illyrican Navy to draw distinctions between its ships, especially since it made it that much easier to shift personnel wherever they were needed without significant retraining. From the layout alone,
Eli thought he had a solid guess as to the location of the ship’s recreational room (M-3) and the mess hall (M-7).
Even so, Eli followed the lead of Dr. Graham and Eamon, watching as the other three split off at an early junction and headed in the direction of precisely where he’d expected the engine room to be. Kelly and McKenna, the sharp-featured dark-haired woman, stayed on course toward the ship’s bridge, as did Gwen. The latter’s hand was resting on the pistol in her belt, and the lack of a sidearm once again made Eli’s fingers twitch. He’d never exactly been a great shot, but he had to admit there was a certain reassurance in being able to shoot back.
After they’d spent five minutes tramping through the corridor, Eli was forced to concede that Project Tarnhelm was quite a bit larger than he’d gathered from the exterior view. Its utilitarian outer shell, all hard edges and gawky angles, combined with the decided lack of weapon emplacements, had led him to conclude that the ship was a converted bulk freighter: Warhorse class, unless he missed his guess. The Warhorse was the backbone of the Illyrican Navy, making up the better part of its shipping operations and was essential for logistical support: namely, moving supplies and munitions from place to place. They were a familiar sight in the fleet, as most carrier battle groups—including the Venture’s—sported at least a handful, usually for warehousing supplies and parts; in a pinch they could also be used to transport marines in space-to-ground missions. Frankly, you got so used to seeing the freighters that, after a while, you didn’t notice them anymore.
So why’s this one so damn important? The only theory he had was that the Warhorse’s size and large available internal volume made it an ideal testbed for developing technologies: a sort of spacefaring platform on which you could mount any sort of weapon.
But one that would change the balance of the war? He’d heard the rumors, of course, when he was in the academy. Whispers of the Imperium’s weapons research division working on mass drivers that could propel an enormous metal rod into the crust of a planet—and perhaps even deeper. Narrow-spectrum cohesive lasers that could slice a ship from bow to stern in one sweep. Electromagnetic limpet mines that would glom onto a ship like a swarm of bees. Even, perhaps most terrifying of all, renewed development in planet-scathing nuclear weapons which had been outlawed on Earth centuries ago. (Really, that had been more an act of practicality than of taking the moral high ground—after all, when you began to talk planetary invasion and conquest, there was little point to irradiating the very land you were trying to occupy.)
Devastating as any of those weapons would be, Eli still had a hard time painting them as the kind of game-changer that Eamon had bragged of. One thing’s for sure, he thought as they continued their way through seemingly endless corridors, there’s certainly enough space on this damn ship to build any number of nasty little surprises.
Eli’s party climbed a short staircase up onto the half-level that held the ship’s command center. They paused outside the heavy blast door, above which the entry light showed green, meaning it was unsecured. Because who’d expect an armed incursion while still docked? The squad checked their weapons.
Eamon turned to address them. “Lucy, you’ll open the door, then stand aside. Kelly and McKenna, you’re first in. The security patrol will be uniformed. First priority is to neutralize them. I suspect the major will be in civilian dress—probably unarmed, as well. I want him alive; is that understood?” He held each of the others’ gazes in turn, and they all nodded.
“All right, then. On my mark: three, two, one … mark!”
Lucy pressed the door control and then flattened herself against the bulkhead, leaving an unobstructed view into the bridge. Kelly and McKenna stepped through, followed by Eamon and Gwen, with the unarmed pair of Eli and Lucy trailing behind. Still, Eli had a perfect vantage point for the entire affair, which unfolded over the course of about three seconds.
The door opened onto a rounded compartment that looked like a smaller version of the bridge Eli remembered from the Venture. A tier of stations around the rim of the room hosted the ship’s various command and control functions, while a raised platform in the center held holographic displays of the ship’s status and consoles for the command officers. Directly in front of them sat the pilot’s cockpit, sunken into the floor like an orchestra pit.
The bridge contained three people; as Eamon had predicted, two of them wore the crimson uniform of Illyrican military personnel while the third was dressed in civilian garb. The security officer closest to the door, a young woman with windswept sandy hair, looked up with a frown as Kelly and McKenna stepped through the door.
“Maintenance shift shouldn’t start for another two hou—” But that was all she got out before a burst from Kelly’s carbine took her in the chest, dropping her to the deck.
The second security guard, who had been leaning lazily against the other side of the compartment, watched this dumbfounded, his mouth dropping in shock. He was still fumbling for his pistol when McKenna shot him in the shoulder.
Through all of this, the third person stood on the command platform, facing away from the raiding party with his hands clasped behind his back. Something about his posture and the squareness of his shoulders suggested a readiness to spring into action, barely held back by something else: caution. With both of the security officers down, he put his hands in the air, turning slowly.
Eamon stepped forward, pistol held in one hand, though it was pointed at the floor. He smiled and inclined his head toward the man. “Ah, Major Shankar. A pleasure to meet you—except, of course, you’re not Major Shankar, are you?”
The man’s gaze swept across the fallen security guards: the one who McKenna had shot was groaning quietly on the floor, clutching his arm, white-faced; the other had not been so lucky—she’d been dead before she hit the ground. Shaking his head, the man sighed heavily and fixed Eamon with a reluctant look. Eli’s breath caught as he saw the man’s face straight-on for the first time.
“Was all this really necessary?” Fielding asked, his hands still in the air.
Eamon stepped up onto the dais, scrutinizing the man. They made an interesting contrast: Eamon’s fiery red beard and hair against pale skin; Fielding almost monotone, from his dark brown hair to the rough stubble that was just shy of a beard at this point. His gray eyes swept the room, finally alighting on Eli with interest.
“Ah, Mr. Brody,” he said, nodding his head. “I see you found your brother after all.”
Eamon prodded him in the ribs with his pistol. “There’s only one Brody you should be concerned with. And let me give you a hint—it’s not that one.” He pulled the gun back and cocked his head to one side. “So, you’re the mysterious Fielding, I presume? I’ve heard a lot about you. How you duped that courier pilot into believing you were Shankar, I have no idea, but I’ll admit I’m impressed.”
“Having seen your own handiwork, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I’m only sorry we won’t have a chance to compare notes further.”
Fielding raised an eyebrow. “That is a shame. There are a few things I was hoping to pick your brain about—the murder of a Commonwealth intelligence officer, for one. Tell me, why did you kill Wallace? Especially after you passed him all that information about, well …” He waggled two fingers on one of his raised hands, taking in their surroundings. “If I had to guess, I’d wager he tried to put the kibosh on your little plan for the Illyricans’ top-secret project. That’s why you ransacked his apartment, right? To see what else he knew.” His eyes narrowed. “Then again, maybe you just decided to try your hand at cold-blooded murder.”
Eamon’s face darkened. “Shut up.”
“Ah,” said Fielding, looking at the rest of Eamon’s crew regretfully. “I never did know when to stop talking. Of course, you didn’t bother to tell your comrades exactly where you got all those weapons they’re holding.”
Eamon didn’t say anything, but the grip on his gun tightened and the barrel worked its way back up to
Fielding’s midsection.
“You seem to do best when you’ve given people just enough rope to tie themselves into knots,” said Fielding.
The gun jabbed back into Fielding’s ribs, but he regarded it with little more interest than he would have shown a fly.
“What is going on?” Gwen murmured to Eli. “Who the hell is this guy?”
“I’ll tell you this much,” Eli said under his breath, “if you’ve got money to place, I’m not sure I’d bet against him.”
Eamon cast a glance over his shoulder at Kelly. “I want him secured. Now. This ship must have a brig somewhere.” Kelly started forward, carbine raised. “Lije,” said Eamon, still keeping his eye—and his gun—trained on Fielding, “I need you to prep the ship for takeoff.”
Eli looked back and forth between his brother and Fielding. With all the adrenaline and excitement coursing through his veins, he’d almost forgotten the entire reason he’d been dragged along on this expedition. His knees wobbled slightly and he tasted acid in his mouth. “I—”
Fielding saved him the trouble. “For what it’s worth, it was a good plan. Although I have to imagine that your brother wasn’t your first choice of pilots. Given his condition.”
It was Eamon’s turn to look surprised; he turned on one heel to face his brother. “Condition?”
A bead of sweat rolled across Eli’s brow and he avoided his brother’s gaze.
“If you’re relying on him, I sincerely doubt you’re going to be able to so much as get off this rock,” Fielding said. “Your brother is suffering from an acute form of post-traumatic stress disorder. Hell, I’m amazed you even got him into space at all.”
“Lije?”
“Sorry,” Eli muttered. He swore he saw his brother’s shoulders droop slightly. Just another disappointment.
“Still,” Fielding continued, “all told, you got pretty close. De Valera would be proud that you lived up to his name.”