Starpilot's Grave: Book Two of Mageworlds

by Doyle, Debra; Macdonald, James D.

  “Watch this,” he said, unfolding the flimsy and spreading it out next to the others. “I happen to have in my office a list that’s five years old of everyone in Space Force—a dead file in a comp that isn’t tied up to anything else, just used for confidential storage. I found it one day by accident right after I took over in Security, and decided to keep it on hand for information’s sake.

  “You never know,” he continued piously, “when something like that might come in useful. So I checked my little list against that other list, and I didn’t find any entries for either Warrant Officer Gamelan Bandur or Clerk/Comptech First Class Ennys Pardu—and with those ranks, they have to have been in the service five years ago.”

  Ochemet looked at the second sheet of flimsy with its few lines of print, the blunt record of a comp search that had found matches for only four names out of six. “Fakes.”

  “Fakes,” confirmed Gremyl. “One male, one female.”

  Ochemet shook his head in protest. “But the commander is dead, remember? We know where she is.”

  “Maybe,” said Gremyl. “Oh, I don’t mean that she isn’t dead—but think about what Master Ransome said about the Magelords. I understand that the Mages were real big on using genetic replicants for intelligence work.”

  Ochemet said, “That was in the old days. We destroyed all their biolabs at the end of war, along with everything else.”

  “You mean we hope we destroyed all of them,” Gremyl said. “But I’m willing to bet a few workers and midlevel technicians slipped past us. And that’s enough to start a nice little black market in illegal replicants on some planet where Republic law doesn’t run. As for the customers—who knows?”

  Ochemet chewed on that thought for a while. “Right,” he said finally. “Let’s assume that it really is Metadi on board RSF Selsyn-bilai, Metadi and somebody else who’s posing as Commander Quetaya posing as CC First Ennys Pardu. The Selsyn is already in hyper, so there’s no way we can call them back or catch them from here. What do you recommend?”

  “We can’t catch them,” Gremyl said, “but we know where they’re going. I recommend sending a fast ship full of combat-ready troopers to Infabede from the Ontimi sector, with orders to intercept the Selsyn as soon as she drops out of hyperspace.”

  “Not particularly subtle,” commented Ochemet, “but it’ll do. I suppose you already have a ship in mind?”

  “As it happens,” said Gremyl, “yes.”

  Ochemet looked at the lists of printed names for a few moments longer, and then nodded. “Very well, Captain—make the signal.”

  II.

  THE NET: RSF KARIPAVO; RSF EBANNHA

  “COMMODORE. COMMODORE, wake up.”

  Gil felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him out of a comfortable sleep. He turned over and opened his eyes to the dim red light of his cabin’s off-shift illumination.

  “I’m awake,” he said, swinging his legs over the side of the bunk. “What is it?”

  His aide, Lieutenant Jhunnei, was standing in front of him, holding a mug of steaming cha’a. She pressed the mug into his hand before speaking.

  “We’ve picked up a contact,” she said. “Quadrant N-seven-outer, moderate sublight speed. Appears to be artificial. Not responding to hails.”

  Gil cradled the mug in his hands, breathing in the warm vapor that rose off the surface of the liquid. He knew from his own experience as aide to General Metadi that waking the commodore wasn’t something to be undertaken lightly; there had to be more to the contact than Jhunnei’s demeanor let on.

  “Where’s she coming from?” he asked.

  “Straight out of the Mageworlds.”

  “Ah,” said Gil. That explained a lot of things, including why Jhunnei had brought the news herself. “Thanks, I’ll be in CIC directly.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jhunnei turned and departed, the door seal sighing gently shut behind her.

  Gil took a sip of the cha’a—it had the unmistakable flavor of something that had been brewing in a hotpot for entirely too long—then put the mug down while he pulled on a set of undress coveralls with the stars of his rank embroidered on the collar. He added a pair of the soft boots that went with the coveralls, and a knit cap. The Space Force had long since discovered that crews were more alert, and electronic systems more efficient, when the air was on the chilly side, so the big ships were always about forty degrees below blood temperature.

  Gil picked up his mug of cha‘a, took another swallow, and headed for the door. Just as he reached it, the General Quarters alarm sounded. Mug in hand, Gil picked up speed in the direction of the Combat Information Center. He’d drink the rest of his cha’a when he got there.

  In CIC, the main battle tank displayed a holographic representation of the situation in progress. A dot of red light shone in the center of the tank, surrounded by three smaller blue dots: single-seat fighters in open formation, none of them fouling the others’ ranges, and all of them, he was sure, locked on target and ready to fire.

  Gil found the ’Pavo’s executive officer standing midway between the tank and the comm board. “What do you have, Erne?”

  “We’ve got a ship, all right,” the XO told him. “Constant course and speed. No delta-vee. She’s not radiating anything—stone cold with all systems shut off by the looks of it. The CO of RSF Ebannha, Captain Inifrey, is the on-scene commander.”

  Gil nodded in the general direction of the blue dots. “Those his people out there?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You have an approximate origin?”

  “We’ve been working on it,” said the XO. He gestured, and the tactical action officer came over to join the group. “I’ll let Patel fill you in.”

  “Right,” said Gil. He turned to the TAO. “Tell me what you know.”

  “Working back from where she is right now,” said the TAO, “and assuming constant course and speed, the vessel’s point of origin was definitely in the heart of the Magezone, some while before the war really got started.”

  Before Gil could answer, one of the comms techs looked up from the board. “Ebannha signals he’s detailed a boarding and salvage party,” the tech said.

  Gil nodded. “Roger, keep me informed.”

  The captain of RSF Karipavo strode over, his own cha’a cup in hand. “Update?” he inquired of the XO.

  “We’re not really sure,” the XO responded. “All we have right now is a spaceship not responding to signals.”

  “What’s your situation, Captain?” Gil asked.

  “We went to GQ as soon as I got word there was a stranger,” the ’Pavo’s captain replied. “We’re manned up and ready. At the best it gives us a good chance for a drill, and at worst—” A fourth blue dot winked into existence inside the main tank as the holo updated in realtime. “Looks like Ebannha’s boarding party just got there,” Karipavo’s captain said, interrupting himself.

  “Boarding party is on station,” the comm tech said. “Shall I put their transmission on audio?”

  “Yes,” Gil said. “I’d like to hear this.”

  The tech pressed a button, and the voice of the boarding party’s talker came over the speakers in CIC, the words slurred by the slight fuzziness of a decrypted transmission.

  “ … and commencing scan at this time. Standard spiral, aft to fore.”

  “Stand by ready two,” replied another voice on the same circuit—Ebannha, talking to the boarding party. “Copy.”

  The fourth blue dot in the tank began to circle the unknown ship, moving forward, while the three single-seat fighters maintained their watchful positions.

  “Are you getting the pictures?” the first voice said.

  “That’s a roger.”

  “Do they match anything in the library? I don’t recognize this class.”

  “Searching, wait, out,” the second voice replied. The transmission broke off, then returned. “Tentative analysis,” it said, “first approximation only. Vessel matches known exterior configuration of Ma
ge Deathwing raider.”

  “Roger, understand possible Mage Deathwing.”

  “Compare structure, identification ninety percent.” The second speaker’s tone shifted abruptly. “Watch yourself out there. Those guys were mean.”

  “Roger, watching my ass,” the boarding party’s talker said. “Spiral scan complete. Unless otherwise directed, I intend to dock with unknown.”

  “Classify unknown hostile,” Ebannha responded. “Positive ID Mage Deathwing.”

  Gil looked about for Lieutenant Jhunnei. He hadn’t noticed his aide’s presence when he entered the CIC—like all good aides, she had a talent for blending into the background—but he wasn’t surprised now to find her waiting nearby.

  “That’s your signal, Lieutenant,” Gil said. “Transmit to CO Republic Space Forces, flash precedence, Commodore’s Situation Report, contact made with Mage Deathwing raider. Enemy intentions unknown. Amplifying info to follow.”

  Jhunnei was over at the comm board almost before he’d finished speaking. Gil turned back to the watch officer and the ’Pavo’s captain.

  “There,” he said. “That should definitely wake them up back on Galcen. And if they don’t have an amplifying report from us within about fifteen minutes, half the civilized galaxy should be underway for our location.”

  “How much harm can one ship do?” the watch officer asked.

  “These are Mages we’re talking about,” said the ’Pavo’s captain. “Who knows what they might be capable of?”

  “That’s right,” Gil said. “No one’s ever been aboard a Deathwing. Not until today.”

  Ensign Tammas Cantrel had no illusions about why he’d been picked to command Ebannha’s boarding party. He’d had plenty of experience at boarding merchant ships for inspection before they crossed the Net—and if things went horribly wrong, the loss of a single ensign wasn’t going to hurt anybody very much.

  He maneuvered his ship, a Pari-class short range surveyor-scout, over the forward end of the hostile target until he could match the other vessel’s course and speed. “Hostile target” doesn’t half cover it, he thought. I’m about to become the first person on this side of the Net to see the inside of a Deathwing raider and—maybe—live to tell the tale.

  I think I could do without the honor.

  Cantrel glanced over at his mate in the copilot’s seat, Chief Hull Mechanic Wyngar Yance. “Did you catch any anomalies on visual, Chief?”

  “I got a couple,” Yance replied. “If we’re assuming lateral symmetry on these things, that is.”

  “Might as well assume it,” Cantrel said. “Gross symmetry anyhow—it certainly looks like they’ve got it. I picked up a depression on the centerline aft that looks like a docking port of some kind. What about you?”

  “I’m seeing a shadow under the ventral ridge that isn’t matched on the other side.”

  “Right,” said Cantrel. “So what do you think we’ve got?”

  “Best bet’s an empty dock for some kind of small craft, and an open airlock.”

  “Meaning the crew might not be at home?”

  “I sure hope they aren’t home,” said Yance fervently.

  “I’m too close to retirement to get into a gunfight on board someone else’s ship.”

  You and me both, thought Cantrel. A whole career away from retirement is too close for something like that, if you ask me.

  But the Space Force hadn’t asked him, so he squared his shoulders. “We’re ready,” he said to Communications Technician Elligret Saben. “It’s time to tell ’em we’re going in. I’m going to try for the airlock, see if that’s what it really is, and come in the front.”

  Saben looked up from the comm console, where she’d been trying broad-frequency hailing. “Still no reply from the target,” she said. “Regular starpilot’s grave over there—no emanations of any kind.”

  “‘Starpilot’s grave’?”

  “What the merchant spacers call a drifting wreck,” she said. “Most of those guys, they don’t want to leave their ships until they have to be carried out feet-first—and some of them don’t ever get to leave, period. Me, I plan to spend my pension money dirtside somewhere, thank you.”

  “So we’ve got a target that looks like it’s been dead for a while,” Cantrel said. “Or might it be in some kind of deliberate shutdown for silent running?”

  Saben shrugged. “Could go either way, sir.”

  Just what we needed, Cantrel thought. I love playing the stick that springs the trap, I really love it.

  “Times like this,” he said aloud, “I wish we had an Adept.”

  He turned to the boarding craft’s engineer. “Falkith, take us to the anomaly I’ve identified on your screen. Chief, come with me and suit up. We’re going for a walk.”

  “I wish you didn’t sound so enthusiastic about the idea,” the chief complained as he unstrapped and walked over to the pressure-suit locker. “I can think of lots better ways to make it into the history books.”

  “So can I, Chief. But they didn’t ask me for suggestions.”

  Under Falkith’s direction the boarding craft changed vector slightly, and ended up floating just above the dark patch that the chief had thought might be an open airlock. Waiting in pressure suits inside their own airlock compartment, Yance and Cantrel watched the light over the outer door cycle from red to green. Finally the lock clicked open.

  Cantrel went out of the airlock first, a lifeline tied around his waist, jumping across to the Magebuilt craft. Once his magnetic boots had made safe contact, he made the line fast to a grabpoint on the raider’s surface and signaled the chief.

  “Come on over. Got your recorder working?”

  Yance’s voice came to him over the comm link in the helmet of his p-suit. “Roger, it’s up. Let’s do it.”

  Yance joined Cantrel on the skin of the raider. Then—with the chief walking a little behind the ensign to make a visual recording of their transit, and with the data being relayed to Ebannha in realtime via the boarding craft—they walked along the Magebuilt vessel’s surface to the opening that the chief had identified as a possible airlock.

  Yance aimed his recorder at the airlock. “There it is.”

  “Small opening,” Cantrel said, for the benefit of the watchers back on Ebannha and the boarding craft, who wouldn’t have a clear idea of the scale. “Probably personnel only.”

  He drew a deep breath. “Well, time to go in. I wouldn’t like to get caught in one of those, though. And I seriously hate the idea of coming through a lock with unfriendlies on the other side.”

  “You and me both,” said Yance. Abruptly the chief pointed at something. “Hey, look at that.”

  “I’m looking,” said Cantrel. He saw at once what Yance was talking about: the outer door to the airlock was not just standing open, it had been wedged. “What do you make of it?”

  “Damned if I know, sir.”

  “Me neither. Just make sure you get lots of pictures.”

  Cantrel directed his light into the lock chamber, playing the beam all about. “What the—take a look at this, Chief. Someone’s wedged the inside door open, too.”

  “I’m recording, sir. But why the hell would anybody want to do a dumb thing like that?” Yance sounded outraged as well as puzzled; for any spacer, deliberately opening the ship to vacuum ranked as a deadly sin.

  “I wouldn’t know, Chief. But this job is getting stranger by the minute.”

  Yance brought the recorder in close to pick up the details of the inner door. “I didn’t like it when this was just a Mage ship,” he said. “And I definitely don’t like it now.”

  You can say that again, thought Cantrel. This whole setup stinks so bad that you can smell it in vacuum.

  “We’re not getting paid to like it,” he told the chief. He unhooked his energy lance from its carrying clips on the back of his p-suit and moved on into the open lock. The handlamp on his suit sent a beam of white light ahead of him into the blackness inside. “We’re get
ting paid to board it. Let’s go.”

  Back on RSF Karipavo, Gil divided his attention between the situation display in the battle tank and the flatvid screen showing realtime pictures from the boarding party. The open airlock of the Magebuilt ship gaped like a dark mouth; to the cold eye of the recorder, Ensign Cantrel was a small and uncertain figure standing on its outer lip.

  “Poor kid,” said Lieutenant Jhunnei quietly at Gil’s elbow. “It’s a hell of a thing to know that you’re expendable.”

  Gild nodded. “No argument on that, Lieutenant. But we’re in the same position, after all.”

  “Who are, sir?”

  “All of us in the Mageworlds screening force,” Gil said. On the flatscreen, the ensign unclipped his energy lance and stepped over the rim of the airlock into the dark. “Because if anything bad manages to make it across from the other side of the Net, it’s our job to buy the civilized galaxy as much time as we can.”

  “Understood,” said Jhunnei. “In the interest of staving off the day, shall I have the comms tech start compressing the data for a direct hyperspace feed to Galcen?”

  “Why not?” Gil said. “They must have gotten the first report by now, and it’s going to have them all hugging the comm links and waiting for more, from the Commanding General down to the tech on duty. No point in disappointing them.”

  The interior of the Magebuilt raider was strangely familiar—the result, Cantrel supposed, of expedients forced upon its builders by the physical realities of starflight—but at the same time subtly alien. He could recognize individual details and pieces of equipment when the beam from his handlamp fell on them, things like airtight hatches, accessways, or emergency gear for dealing with the spacer‘s twin demons of fire and decompression, but their location was never quite what he expected it to be.

  The chief apparently felt the difference, too. “Screwy setup in here.”

  “Blame it on the Magelords. Which way do you figure is the bridge?”