Battle Cruiser

by B. V. Larson

  Searching the smuggler’s ship was one of the tightest squeezes I’d ever endured. There were pockets where a man could stand if he hunched, but they were few and far between. Every centimeter of space was crammed with goods.

  Despite the crowding, the smuggler’s ship appeared to be well-maintained. Every system was operating with perfect efficiency. It did nothing for my mood to see the relative wealth of the other side.

  The worst part was I couldn’t find anything on the contraband list aboard her. I wanted to cite the pilot for smuggling—but I couldn’t.

  He stood with his arms crossed as Rumbold and I inspected his vessel, worming our way over packages from the forward cockpit to the frozen confines of the aft hold. It was in the depths of the hold where I finally found something interesting.

  “What are these?” I asked, holding up a silver tube with a screw-cap and a temperature readout on the side.

  “That’s an embryonic storage unit,” he said. “That’s someone’s child, unaltered.”

  I stared at the tube in surprise.

  “Why would you be carrying something medical?” I asked.

  He snorted. The pilot’s name was Edvar-something, and he hadn’t been the most gracious smuggler I’d ever met.

  “That’s how they do it out in the rocks,” he said. “You can’t conceive normally. There aren’t a lot of eligible mates running around for most spacers. Some get the urge, and they buy a premade like these.”

  I opened a large carton. There were dozens of them. Silver tubes with rounded ends and readouts on the side.

  “Frozen…” I said thoughtfully. “I’ll have to open one to check your story.”

  The man looked at me balefully. “That will ruin my stock. These aren’t cheap and many of them are special orders.”

  “All the same, I can’t simply take your word for it.”

  “Can’t you just check my manifest?” he demanded. “They’re all listed and cataloged.”

  I shook my head. “Such things can be easily doctored.”

  Edvar groaned and shook his head. “Do it in the hold, then. Just open one, and do it where it’s cold enough to keep the contents from melting. Open it delicately, all right? And reseal it as if it were your own kid you were exposing to space.”

  Eyeing him, I frowned. I didn’t like the idea of endangering someone’s future child—but it couldn’t be helped. The man had no company listed—no one he was working with. There wasn’t anyone I could call and ask for confirmation. He was an independent operator, something that was rare on Earth, but common on the fringe of the system.

  “All right,” I said. Taking the tube into the hold while Rumbold kept his eye on the man, I carefully unscrewed the top.

  I don’t know what I expected to find inside. A vial of white powder, perhaps. Or maybe instant death as a bomb went off in my face.

  But I discovered nothing so dramatic. The tube was a tiny, monitored environment. The embryo inside floated in a tube of frozen yellow liquid.

  I photographed it, ran a quick scan, then carefully sealed it again. When I returned to the cab, the smuggler leered at me.

  “Did you snort it all?” he asked. “Most inspectors leave some for me. Good stuff, isn’t it, peacock-man?”

  I glanced at him sharply, but I ignored the insult. Rude people who were angry with guardsmen often called us “peacocks” as we were considered ineffectual show-offs.

  Without a word, I tapped out a citation and touched his computer with mine. The ticket was instantly transferred and logged.

  “What’s that for?” Edvar demanded.

  “Read it. Resisting search, refusal to obey an officer pursuant, etc. I had to fire across your bow to get you to stop running. That’s a crime.”

  “You dick!” he raged at me. “My customers are big! They won’t like this.”

  I dared hope he would throw a punch—but sadly, he knew better. Instead, he filled the air with invective as Rumbold and I retreated from his ship. When we were safely through the airlock and gone, he fired up his engines and dove down toward Earth. I could see his anger in every course correction.

  “You haven’t lost your touch, sir,” Rumbold remarked.

  “He was hiding something. No one runs from the Guard for the hell of it.”

  “Yeah, probably…but then again, maybe he’s just a man with a vile personality. There are many who become spacers because no one else can stand to have them around.”

  Returning to my station, I found the com light blinking again.

  “Message incoming from Altair, sir,” Rumbold said. “Looks like the boss pulled up behind us while we were inspecting that ship. He’s not in the best mood, I’d imagine.”

  Sighing, I answered the call. Captain Singh’s lips were pulled back to show his teeth. The effect was unpleasant.

  “Mission accomplished, sir,” I said.

  “What mission? You weren’t given orders—”

  “My orders are clear, sir. See the rules of engagement signed March 22nd—signed by you, Captain. They stipulate what to do in the case of a fugitive with possibly dangerous cargo heading for—”

  “What fugitive? He had nothing! I’ve seen your automatic logs. That was abuse, Guardsman. Pure and simple.”

  I frowned. Singh wasn’t always a reasonable man, but he generally came down on the side of the law. What had Edvar said about having powerful friends? I’d expected perhaps to hear from an irritating space-rights lawyer, maybe even one who would manage to drag me into an auto-court to make a deposition. But this…

  “Sorry if I was overzealous, sir,” I said. “It was my belief that the man was a smuggler. I’m still not sure that he wasn’t hiding something. Searching a spaceship properly takes a full ground crew of yard-dogs.”

  “Oh, are you going to request that next?” Singh demanded.

  I hesitated, but then I nodded slowly. “That might be a good idea.”

  Singh threw up his hands and waved them at me as if I was a misbehaving animal. “Forget I said that. We’re returning to the station. There’s something else I need to talk to you about.”

  “What’s that, sir?” I asked, happy to change the topic.

  “Your presence has been formally requested on Earth. You’re going down to the capital tonight. Put on your service dress, and make sure you shave first.”

  I didn’t know what to say for a few moments. “Is this in regard to the incident with the smuggler?”

  “He wasn’t a smuggler. You just confirmed that fact.”

  “I reported that I couldn’t find anything with a cursory inspection.”

  “Never mind. No, this isn’t about your obsession with small-time criminals. I’ve been ‘asked’ by CENTCOM to deliver you to Capital City.”

  “Ah,” I said, understanding at last.

  A major part of my mistreatment among the guardsmen came from the fact I was a member of a prominent family. My father was a Public Servant, one of several hundred such individuals on Earth. Together, they ran what passed for our government. As my father hadn’t approved of my joining the Guard, we hadn’t spoken in over a year. He was a stern man when things didn’t go his way.

  But that reality had never sunk in with most of the guardsmen I knew. They hated me for being from House Sparhawk. Everything I did was second-guessed and assumed to be motivated by arrogance. If I was promoted, it was because of my family name. If I failed in some task, it was because I was incompetent. It was assumed without question I’d only gotten to my station through cheating and favoritism in the first place.

  There was no winning with those who harbored these attitudes, so I didn’t bother. Fortunately a few men, like Rumbold, judged me as one more man in the Guard, rather than as an heir to a fortune.

  “What’s the occasion, sir?” I asked Singh.

  He made a flippant gesture. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll give you command of my ship. Or maybe it’s a royal wedding of some kind. Or maybe, your father is going to give another
of his long speeches on the net tonight and he can’t bear to be apart from you during the ceremony.”

  That last part made me smile. “My father might be giving a speech, it’s true,” I said. “But if he’s requested my presence, it isn’t because he’s dying to see me.”

  Singh leaned forward, peering at me for a moment. “I get it. You disappointed him, didn’t you? You rebelled by joining the Guard, the last ditch holdout for romantics and oldsters who don’t want to quit working.”

  “That’s an unfair assessment of my motivations,” I said, “but it’s a good analysis of my father’s opinion.”

  “He heads the Equality Party,” Singh said, “the short-sighted geniuses who move to slash our budgets every single year. Yes, I can see how joining the Guard offended him. You offend everyone, Sparhawk.”

  “That’s not my goal, Captain.”

  “I’ve got a new goal for you, then,” he said, a sly grin spreading over his face. “I’m sending you down with a full squad as a color guard.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s the best—”

  “I don’t care, Sparhawk. Your old man can reach out and stick a pin in an admiral, forcing him to make a special request regarding you. But he can’t control every detail of your visit, any more than I can control how you run that tiny ship of yours.”

  “But, sir…”

  “Get cleaned up and dock at the station in three hours. Dismissed.”

  The screen faded then flickered as it returned to the normal status display. I glanced over at Rumbold, who was pretending he hadn’t listened in.

  “My father isn’t going to like this. I don’t think he’s ever seen me in my uniform.”

  “We’d better get our dress-blues on then!” he said. “I’ll open the locker.”

  “We?” I asked. “Who said you were going?”

  “Did you hear the captain? He said you’re going down with a full color guard. As your second in command, I must attend.”

  I eyed him doubtfully.

  “I’d love to see a high-society gathering, Skipper,” he said.

  “All right,” I said with a sigh. I flopped back in my creaking command chair the moment he went below decks.

  This was looking worse all the time. I couldn’t imagine a more conspicuous character than Rumbold who might attend one of my father’s gatherings. Loyal he might be—but beautiful and well-mannered he was not.

  -3-

  The trip down from orbit to Capital City was relatively uneventful. I arrived at the grand ballroom of the Equality Party headquarters with a squadron of guardsmen and left them all outside, except for Rumbold.

  Our presence as guardsmen in formal dress was met with an almost disdainful response from political cronies in the ballroom. I had to remind myself they were annoyed by my uniform, rather than my face.

  Fortunately, few of those present seemed to recognize me. I supposed it was my dress-blues that served to hide my identity. Political people tended to look right through men in uniform as if they weren’t there unless they were of very high rank.

  Despite the uniform, I found it surprising more people didn’t recognize me. I reminded myself it’d been several years since I’d attended a state function such as this one, and I’d probably matured in my appearance.

  Making no effort to introduce myself to anyone, I moved through the crowds with relative anonymity.

  My parents had asked that I attend, but upon learning I would be arriving with a squadron of guardsmen and serving as part of a security detail, their attitude had shifted abruptly. They were no longer responding to my implant messages—they had apologetic staffers do it for them instead.

  The staffers repeatedly made polite responses to my requests for information, saying how busy everyone was. They gave me no further details as to the nature of the event, nor anything personal from my parents. As the child of a politician, I was able to translate their meaning: my parents didn’t want my presence to overshadow the event. They didn’t want to go off-message with the press.

  The bottom line was that politics came first. Whatever policy announcement, newly declared House alliance or proposed cure-all legislation they were cooking up was more important to them than visiting with their errant son.

  I felt only mild resentment as I came to this conclusion. I wasn’t surprised or dismayed. I was used to this sort of thing. My parents were political animals. They were a team focused like twin lasers upon their goals. They would get around to hugging me later—or not. I really didn’t care which way it went.

  That said, this was exactly the sort of situation that had driven me to join the Guard in the first place. Life in the public eye meant too much sacrifice for my comfort.

  Once I’d swept the grounds for security threats—of which there were none that I could detect—I headed for the open bar and took a seat with a nervous Rumbold at my side.

  After two narco-beers, I found my mood had been elevated. I entertained myself by watching the steady drumbeat of arriving guests in their fanciful costumes. The most attention-seeking people always came in late.

  A lovely young lady who hailed from House Astra riveted my wandering eyes. Her entrance was carefully choreographed to be as impactful upon the audience as possible.

  This particular lady had achieved her aims with dramatic ease and confidence. She kept my attention effortlessly. It was as if she was born to the part—and it was likely that she had been.

  She stepped down the short marble staircase from the portal onto a crimson ribbon that ran through the crowd. Her careful gait would have suited a member of a wedding march. She kept her eyes front, never allowing herself to focus for more than a split-second upon any single member of her staring audience.

  Her hair was woven into a complex pattern and adorned with silver points of light. Her earrings were golden spheres, like twin suns amidst the star-scape glitter of her hair. These spheres gave off brilliant gleams now and then, one of which dazzled my eye. I suspected the earrings were enhanced with tiny lasers, as the effect was beyond that which a natural reflection could create.

  Her dress, by comparison, was a muted affair. There were no fountains of artificial plasma, splayed holographic feathers or mirrored finishes. It was an intelligent garment of course, but the fabric was a simple, pleasant-looking, sea-foam green. The dress sought to enhance her curves, but it only revealed her skin in modest allotments. As she took each precise step, the dress shifted as per its programming to give the audience tantalizing flashes of the sculpted flesh beneath.

  It was her face, however, that attracted my fixed attention. It was so perfectly shaped with jutting cheekbones and unblinking sapphire eyes...

  My loutish companion leaned close to me and interrupted my fascination. He whispered with whisky-tainted breath into my right ear.

  “Not bad, is she, sir?” Rumbold asked.

  “What’s her name?” I responded without shifting my gaze from the woman’s entrancing form.

  “You must have noticed the sunburst crest of House Astra. I’m surprised you don’t know the rest of her story. Her lineage is impressive!”

  I glanced at Rumbold briefly. “I don’t care about her lineage,” I told him. “I want to know her name.”

  “Chloe, sir,” he said, flashing me a gray-toothed grin. “Her name is Chloe Astra.”

  My eyes returned to the lady and followed her until she vanished into the morphing crowd.

  Another arrival was announced at the entrance, it was a paired couple this time. They were clad in the stalwart midnight black of Grantholm—but I ignored them. I kept looking for the woman in sea-foam green, and I managed to catch glimpses of her lithe shape now and then.

  “Chloe of Astra,” I said, rolling the name off my tongue. I swilled down the last of my whiskey and continued to stare.

  Rumbold chuckled roughly. “Making plans for tonight? I wish you Godspeed in your quest. You’ll need it!”

  I tossed him a glance. “Why’s that?”
<
br />   “Tonight is her blossoming. She’s fresh from the House, and has never been in public before as an adult.”

  My mouth opened, then closed again in disappointment.

  “Ah,” I said, “a pity she’s so young.”

  “Some would say otherwise, but I understand your thinking. You’re a traditional gentleman of the old school. Don’t think that’s not appreciated by men like myself!”

  I nodded vaguely and addressed my beverage. The drug-laced alcohol tingled on my tongue and burned my throat, but it had done little to affect my mental capacities. I’d set my blood-toxin monitors at their highest filtration levels. It wouldn’t do to have a guardsman seen drunk at a public event while on duty.

  The formal arrivals ended, and the party went into full swing. It was a subdued event by the standards of the general populace. There were very few loud, boisterous attendees. This was an affair of state, a party at which those attending were more worried about their appearance than any real social contact. Being here, being seen in attendance of an important engagement, that’s what mattered to most of them.

  Rumbold and I got up and walked slowly around the crowd, making ourselves visible and simultaneously observing the guests. We were the only two guardsmen inside the building. The rest were posted at the entrances and exits, or on the roof in the cold. Our mission, as I saw it, was to be visible but discreet. Anyone thinking of making a protest to any of the government officials present would thus be dissuaded from overt action.

  “William?” asked a female as we passed the Grantholm group. “William Sparhawk, is that you?”

  I paused, feeling a twinge of discomfort. I’d been recognized. I’d hoped to avoid embarrassment—but pretending not to hear the woman wouldn’t help matters now.

  Turning, I forced a smile and bowed as a handsome woman approached. She was a lady who allowed her age to show more than most. She had gray hair, a careworn face, and sharp, intelligent eyes. She wore a flowing dress that was as black as space.