by Dan Thompson
He did not turn to face her, so she stepped all the way in and stood at his side. “Captain Gallows, if you have a moment, perhaps we could have a word in your ready room.”
He looked up at her with what seemed to be a permanent scowl. “Whatever you have to say, you can say it here.”
She had heard rumors about this particular captain, but she had not realized their truth until now. She reached into her jacket and pulled out an envelope. “I have your orders here. As soon as you can wrap up here, we’re going to Ballison.”
He opened the envelope and skimmed the page before handing it back. “And when I’m done ferrying you about?”
Elsa cleared her throat. “You will be released from my service at my discretion,” she said. “If you read that more closely, you’ll see the scope of my authority.”
He waved the paper in his hand. “Yeah, I read it, but the Grizzly is still mine, so until you’ve got a piece of paper that says otherwise, get your ass off my bridge.”
Elsa took the paper back, folded it, and returned it to the envelope. There was no point in antagonizing the man further, but she knew she was going to have her way. She took a step away and then turned back to Davies. “Miss Davies, you can show me to my cabin now.”
They headed aft and back down the ladder.
“I’m sorry about that, ma’am,” Davies said once they were clear of the bridge.
Elsa shook her head. “It’s not your fault. Sitting too long in a captain’s chair can do that to some people.”
“As you say, ma’am.”
Elsa stopped and drew close to Davies. “But I might get the chance to prove my earlier words.”
“Ma’am?”
Elsa reached into her jacket to withdraw the orders again. “In case Captain Gallows’s reading was not so thorough after all, I think perhaps you should know his orders as well.”
Collins stepped out onto the dock of Tsaigo station. He had come on a commercial transport rather than indulging his preference for hitching a ride on a naval courier. This was because the Navy had no reason to be sending couriers to a system with no fleet presence. At best, there was a small recruiting office, but that was all. The war had ended almost twenty years before, and still they played to the local sensitivities. Tsaigo had been one of the more strident members of the Caspian Rebellion. If Collins had his way, there would be steady rotation of ships through here, or at the very least, a few frigates showing the flag.
He sighed. Politics. More than once his blindness to it had threatened his career, and the admiral had warned him about it on this very trip. Play nice. Be polite. Do not strong-arm the local authorities. Besides, there were no marines to back him up this time.
Fortunately, this time he was mostly after information. It was the kind of information that should have already been sucked into the secret web of data that Naval Intelligence maintained, but the records forwarded from Tsaigo’s shipping and passenger agents were notoriously lacking in the details that Collins and his colleagues found most useful. However, the fact that it was being scrubbed from the outbound communications did not mean he could not track it down locally.
Chapter 12
“I’ve heard it said that young men love while old men hate. If that’s true, I hope I never grow old.” – Peter Schneider
IT HAD BECOME A ROUTINE for Michael. Before bed he would pull a random volume from Peter’s journals, flip through to a page he had not read, and skim several days’ worth. He knew it was not efficient, and part of him did want to simply start at the beginning and work forward. But he was not sure he was ready to take on Peter in full force. This limited it to smaller glimpses, and he could handle that. Tonight, however, he ran into something both inevitable and unexpected.
I met an extraordinary woman this morning: Sophia Ross. I think her middle name is Grace, and nothing could be more appropriate. She’s beautiful and serene, and such class! She’s a few years younger than me—barely out of college—and working the engines on some little independent freighter, but she’s sharp.
I know I’m gushing here, but what can I say? She was honestly that incredible. Unfortunately, I’m probably never going to see her again. Her ship is the Braddock Hue, and it’s doing runs out to the border and into Union space. Meanwhile, I’m stuck on the Bizmark, and we don’t even get out to the border, let alone across it.
To top of it off, when I asked around after her, I got the word that she’s dating the Braddock’s XO, a guy named Mal Fletcher. I’m not sure it’s the same guy, but I met a Malcolm Fletcher on my junior cruise back at the academy. He was already working then, skipping college altogether, but he struck me as a clever son of a bitch.
I wish I’d asked to take her picture, but I chickened out. I did snag her passport photo from the port registry though. Yeah, I know it’s silly, but that’s a face I don’t want to forget.
It was strange seeing Peter’s ultimate marriage to Sophia written off as a might-have-been. He found himself wondering about the path that history had not taken. What if Sophia had stayed with Malcolm? Would they have married and had children? Would she still be alive? Would Michael have even been born? How different would he have been with Malcolm’s genes and Sophia’s influence?
He closed the journal and turned out the light. The cabin had enough ghosts in it already without him imagining a life he had never lived.
It turned out to be Bishop’s fourth meeting. He was waiting in the small interview room when one of the convention staff stuck her head in past the door. “I’m sorry Mr. Trent, but Mr. Clyde got tied up groundside and wondered if he could call you instead.”
“That would be fine.”
The phone on the desk started to ring. “Then that’s probably him now,” she said and ducked back out the door, closing it behind her.
He picked up the handset. It was one of those older clunky styles that comes back into fashion every fifty years or so. It did not even have a screen for images or documents, only a little keypad. “Hello,” he said into it, trying to remember which end was the microphone.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Trent,” came the reply, but it was distorted, almost artificial. “Did you get my gift?”
“Your gift?” Bishop suddenly felt a vibration from his pocket. He dug it out and found the little pocket watch vibrating, two seconds on, two seconds off. “You mean the watch?”
“Yes, the watch. I believe if you peek inside, you’ll find a surprise.”
He set the handset down and examined the watch more closely. He found that the main body of the watch could be opened by turning the back plate. It sprang open, and inside were the typical blob of electronics and gears along with two coin-sized foam pads. One pictured an ear, while the other showed a mouth.
He had read about these. They were encryption devices, meant to encode an audible signal using one-time decryption data. The keys were essentially several minutes’ worth of random noise, making the encryption virtually unbreakable. He peeled them off their backings and stuck them over the appropriate ends of the handset.
“Yes, quite a surprise,” he said into the one covering the microphone. “Is this how you conduct safe business?”
The voice came through again, a bit more distorted, but intelligible. “My methods vary, Mr. Bishop. These have been around long enough for you to know how to use them, but they have an added bonus. I created a cover conversation which continues in the audible frequencies, going on about trivial business while our true words are carried in the upper frequencies, indistinguishable from line noise without the decryption key. We’re good for about fifteen minutes, and then do be sure to dispose of the pads. An acid reservoir destroys what is left of the key storage, and it is quite pungent.”
“I appreciate your thoroughness, sir. Is this actually Father Chessman?”
“Indeed, Mr. Bishop.”
“It’s an honor, sir.”
There was laughter, eerie through the distortion. “I’m glad you think so. Not all would a
gree.”
Bishop considered pressing for details on that but knew the clock was ticking. “How may I serve you, sir?”
“Do you recall a young Michael Fletcher?”
“Yes, sir. I remember him quite well. I also spoke to an associate who assured me he was being dealt with.”
“Yes, I’m sure the Lady is pursuing her plan most fervently, and while I am confident in her abilities, I am also aware that she has already been beaten once by this upstart. If she fails again, I want a backup plan.”
“It need not be elaborate, sir. A force gun to the head would solve things nicely.”
“Indeed it would, and be assured that such a backup plan is already in the works, but I have found that some people in this universe are remarkably resistant to such efforts. I believe you can count yourself among them, Mr. Bishop, and I can tell you that the boy’s father was similarly resistant to repeated attempts. However, I have something in mind, an attack against which he is unlikely to have prepared a defense, but I need information and assets to make it happen.”
“I see, and if the Lady succeeds? What then?”
“Do you play chess, Mr. Bishop? With such a name, I had assumed you did.”
“I play some, though I’m no master.”
“Then you understand that while you proceed with multiple simultaneous attacks, the only objective that matters is the opponent’s king. Once that is achieved, there is little concern for a failed queen’s gambit or the unnecessary sacrifice of a pawn. So, Mr. Bishop, I want you to be my bishop and prepare an attack from an oblique angle should I need to employ it. Is that reasonable?”
“Yes,” he replied, partly because it sounded practical but also because he feared giving any other answer. “How shall I proceed?”
“First, I want you to you pick up another asset. You recall Miss Maya Zoland?”
“Yes, but I believe she’s in custody.”
“Indeed. Her sentencing is scheduled for next week, where she will be sent to a secure facility on Pinot’s Hammer for the next twenty to thirty-five standard years. However, an associate of mine is going to arrange for some confusion in the transfer paperwork along the way at Folsom, and I want you to be there to pick her up.”
“And once I have her?”
“I want you to dig into Mr. Fletcher’s past, not merely his, but his father’s as well. As I’m sure you know, the elder Mr. Fletcher had a particular passion for the crew of an old ship named the Reilly.”
“The Reilly?”
“Oh, don’t be so coy, Mr. Bishop. I’ve researched you very well. During the war, you served as the head of the Reilly’s boarding party under the name of Johannes Richter.”
“I’ve heard of Mr. Richter, sir, but I believe he died out past the border. It was some fire on Nasar as I recall.”
“Yes, just as Elsa Watkins died in a flyer crash, but that did not stop her from commanding your last ship, the Blue Jaguar. Tell me, did you know it was her?”
Bishop sighed. “Yes, I did.”
“But I gather she did not know it was you, her old shipmate reunited?”
“I don’t believe she did. At least, we never spoke of it.”
“Prudent, Mr. Bishop, because she seems to have an inappropriate level of attachment for those years. Even now she is working with yet another of your old crew.”
“Carrillo,” he said. “I suspected he was still bouncing around.”
“Yes,” Chessman replied. “All that’s missing now is your old captain, Gunter Farlin.”
“We won’t be seeing him. Of the four of us that escaped Malcolm’s wrath, he’s the only one who really is dead.”
“Oh, do tell. Did you have a hand in it?”
“No, but he went down on the Lorista, and I saw him board it with my own eyes. I’d caught up with him at Callista Prime to warn him. Even though the war was over, Fletcher was still hunting us down. He laughed at me … said I was jumping at shadows. Then I watched him go. I even stayed long enough to watch the Lorista pull out from the dock.”
“And then what? I recall it was some kind of navigation problem.”
Bishop shrugged. “That or a sail malfunction. They never found out for sure, but either way, she plowed right into Callista’s third Jovian on the way out of the system at probably eighty or ninety lights. If the drives got ripped out rather than immediately blown, she might have survived another minute or two, but the gravity and atmospheric density of that world was going to crush any vessel, even reinforced lifepods. No one was going to survive that.”
“I see. Thank you, Mr. Bishop. I believe I can cross Captain Farlin off my list of open questions. I had hopes he might be able to answer the question of why the elder Fletcher was hunting the Reilly crew in the first place. Do you know?”
Bishop shook his head. “Not really, but I think I can trace it back to one particular battle and the destruction of two ships, a Corey Tasha and a Kaiser’s Folly.”
“I had surmised that much as well. Very well, Mr. Bishop, after you have Miss Zoland, I want you to start digging. Find out why Malcolm was on his quest, and we’ll see if young Michael is carrying it forward. If he is, I want you to find his soft spots.”
“And if I can get a clear shot?”
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Mr. Bishop, but there is a larger game in play. If the boy can survive Miss Watkins’s attempts, he will have allies. If I bring you into play, I will be after more than just the boy. I will be wanting to hurt his allies as well. So this is not merely about taking shots at him. I want you to find the place to stick the figurative dagger in his back. Do you understand me, Mr. Bishop?”
“Yes, Father Chessman, I understand you.”
“Then I believe our time is up. Once you have Miss Zoland, you’ll receive contact codes for reaching me.”
He was about to thank Chessman for his trust, but the line went dead. He peeled the decryption stickers from the handset and tossed them into the trash. He did not want to be there when the acid reservoirs activated, so he gathered his things and walked out. The young staff member was still out in the reception area. “You can cancel my other appointments,” he said. “I think I found my supplier.”
“Congratulations, sir. I’m glad we were able to facilitate things for you.”
He paused, wondering for a moment if she had any idea who had been on the phone but dismissed it. His old captain had been right, even after all these years. He was still jumping at shadows. “Thanks,” he said at last and headed back to the hotel.
He needed to find transport to Folsom, but he had a few days to play with. It would not do to have Victor Trent disappear too quickly.
Michael went through the galley with two plates, right behind the blushing bride who also had two plates. “I hope everything has been to your satisfaction, Mrs. Dellina.”
“Oh, yes,” she said with an embarrassed smile. “And I appreciate your offer of such reasonable rates. When the money ran out, we …” She trailed off with a shrug. “At least now I know how my father feels about the elopement.”
“I see,” he replied. “I didn’t realize the details.”
“The details … yes. Well, hopefully they’ll wash away pretty soon. With any luck, I’ll be pregnant by the time he calls me on the carpet. If we’ve managed that, I’ll have Mom on my side.”
“Ah” was all he could say.
She held her twin plates of bacon and French toast aloft. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, Captain. I’m going to take this back to my man. He has to keep his strength up.”
He watched her go without another word. Turning back to Winner, he saw she had already put his omelet and bacon on one plate and was loading the other with French toast. “Can I get a piece of that for myself as well?”
She nodded, pulling one more from the warming tray. “Not much of a surprise, sir, but a little.”
He shrugged. “I’m branching out.”
“As you wish, sir.”
He sighed. “You know, Mis
s Vargas, we make port at Cenita station tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. Is there any particular dish you want me to look for? I’ve heard good things about their turkey.”
“No, whatever you pick is fine. I simply wanted to say before we all went our different ways that if you run into any trouble, I’m only a call away.”
She looked back down to the food. “Thank you, sir. I don’t think that will be necessary.”
Michael thought to reach out to her, but the buffet line between them made it impractical. “I mean it, Miss Vargas.”
She looked up to meet his eyes. “I’m sure you do, sir, but believe me when I tell you that I get along with my troubles just fine on my own.”
He shook his head but gathered up the plates and made his way to the bridge. Carlos was already there, humming one of his tunes. Michael handed him a plate and sat beside him. The standard navigation displays were still up from the last shift he had sat there. The winds looked smooth.
Carlos dug in, tearing off pieces of the toast with his fingers and dipping them into the syrup. “Thanks, Skipper.”
Michael gritted his teeth, but there was no putting this off any longer. “Mr. Rodriguez, about our discussion the other day regarding the shift change … I wanted to say that you were right, and I was—”
“The captain,” Carlos finished for him.
“What?”
“You were saying that I was right and that you were the captain. You know, that kind of thing.”
“I don’t think that’s quite what I was going to say.”
Carlos looked at him and grinned. “Well you sure as hell weren’t going to say that you were wrong, Skipper, were you? Because captains are never wrong. They just change their minds about earlier decisions. Isn’t that right?”
Michael could not help but smile. It was almost as though it had come out of Malcolm’s mouth. “Yeah, that. I changed my mind. The crew solved a problem on their own, and I’m glad I didn’t have to deal with it.”