First Command

by Scott Bartlett

  He nudged the rifle a couple centimeters to the right. Now the pirates were lifting their weapons as their eyes roved wildly around the long control room, looking for who was shooting at them, terror on their faces. I need to shoot faster. His next round blew a pirate’s shoulder apart, and he gut-shot the fourth target.

  But the rightmost pirate was gaining his bearings. He grabbed his hostage, a male not long out of adolescence, and swung him around, lodging the muzzle of his assault rifle under his chin. “Stop!” Avery recognized the voice as the same one that had been negotiating with Hancock. “Stop shooting!”

  But Avery didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He blew apart his fifth target’s jaw, and he took careful aim at the last pirate standing, tracking his erratic movements and taking another breath.

  Then it happened: the pirate pulled the trigger, sending several rounds into the boy’s skull. Avery shot him a second later, but it was too late.

  “Damn it,” he yelled. “God damn it all!”

  “Easy, Avery,” Hancock said. “Keep it together. You saved five people. That’s good work.”

  “I should have made the shot quicker. I could have saved them all, Major.”

  “Avery, calm down. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, Major.” The pirate he’d shot in the shoulder was struggling toward his weapon, so Avery blew off the top of his head. Next, he put down the one he’d gut-shot.

  With that, he safetied his weapon, retracted the bipod, and placed the weapon on the duct floor, so as not to spook the surviving former hostages any more than they already had been. That done, he lowered his forehead to the cool metal of the grate and continued to berate himself mentally.

  “I’m sorry, Avery,” Hancock said. “Taking this station is going to cost us, that much is clear. The worst thing is, I’m beginning to believe the captain doesn’t intend to reward us for our efforts.”

  For a few seconds, Avery didn’t answer. “Are we on a private channel right now, Major?”

  “Of course.”

  “You don’t think he’s going to start cutting the marines in on prize money?”

  “I’m not sure he intends to distribute any prize money, to anyone. He thinks he’s back in the Fleet, where he can send people hopping at a word, no questions asked. But we both know things have always been a bit looser than that, on the Jersey. A lot of us got into this gig hoping to make some extra coin, didn’t we?”

  “Well, there’s not much we can do about it, Major,” Avery said, his forehead still firmly against the metal.

  “Oh, I think there is. I think it’s time we demand our fair share.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Aboard Attack Shuttle One

  Epact System, Dupliss Region

  Earth Year 2290

  Most of the marine platoon riding on Attack Shuttle One had taken off their helmets and stowed them under their crash seats, to get a bit of fresh air before donning them again to board the Charger, the pirate corvette that had surrendered to Captain Thatcher.

  As fresh as you can get in space, anyway.

  Avery kept his helmet on, and so did Major Hancock, as well as Lieutenant Commander Billy Candle—New Jersey’s XO. This way, they could converse in secret.

  “Things are changing in the Cluster,” Hancock was saying. “There’s no need to abide captains who think they can get everything from those under their command for nothing in return. Not anymore.”

  Without turning his head, Avery watched the XO as he seemed to weigh Hancock’s words from his crash seat across the aisle. None of them moved as they spoke, instead staring straight ahead and remaining perfectly motionless. The helmets were enough of a giveaway that they were having a secret conversation, though a few other marines had left theirs on, thankfully. Possibly for the same reason.

  Taking Prosper Station had been about as agonizing as expected. Hancock had made good use of Avery, sending him throughout the station’s nooks and crannies to get the drop on clusters of hostiles. The pirates were woefully outmatched, wielding unintegrated weapons, with their patchwork armor pitted against the marines’ silver power suits.

  Even so, there’d been three marine casualties, one of them critical. Avery thought Underwood would make it—he was a tough son of a bitch—but he wouldn’t be sent back into battle for a while.

  To top it all off, two more hostages had died as they retook the station. Neither of those was Avery’s fault, but he couldn’t stop his mind from playing and replaying the scene from the control room. The way he’d fumbled that last shot…

  If I’d just been a little faster.

  Thatcher had been about to send Attack Shuttle Two to secure the Charger, but Hancock had insisted Alpha Platoon was up for the job, even after slogging through Prosper Station. “We’re suited up already, sir, more than warmed up, and in no mood to take any shit from pirates, if you’ll pardon me. It’s just as well to send us.”

  Unknown to the captain, the marine commander had patched Avery into the exchange. He’d listened and stayed silent.

  “Very well, Major,” Thatcher had said, clearly ready to defer to Hancock’s judgment. That had killed Avery, a little—everyone said Thatcher was an obsessive micromanager, yet here he was trusting his marine commander to handle things. The same marine commander who planned to betray him.

  So they’d dropped off the casualties at the Jersey and taken on the XO, as well as a couple other officers Thatcher had delegated to operate the Charger in the coming battle. Some more crew were being sent over in Attack Shuttle Two—as many as would be needed to oversee the pirate crew and make sure they did exactly as they were ordered, backed up by marine muscle.

  “Just what are you proposing?” Candle said at last.

  “Well, that depends on you, sir,” Hancock said. For the record, I’m not proposing anything until you say you’re in. But I know you miss the way things were under Captain Vaughn.”

  “I don’t think things will ever be that way again on the Jersey.”

  “Not on the Jersey, no. Maybe not on any Frontier ship. But we have to start thinking outside the box, don’t we? Like I said, things are different now. For instance, if a PMC employee were to skip out on the rest of his contract, who would have the time or resources to stop him? Especially if that employee, or employees, had a fully operational corvette at their disposal to use as a big fat bargaining chip. We could work for any corp we want. Or we could explore…other endeavors.”

  Hancock had been Avery’s friend since they’d endured Fleet boot camp together, years and years ago. But Hancock’s ambition had seen him get promoted a little faster than his friend, and when his second enlistment date rolled around, he quit the Fleet to work for Frontier, while Avery stuck around for another term.

  Nearly eight years later, when they’d reconnected on Earth, Hancock had talked him into applying for a job with Frontier, offering to put in a good word for him. It had worked out, and once aboard the Jersey, they’d found their friendship just as fresh as it had always been. It made Avery a bit uncomfortable, since Hancock was now his direct superior, but the marine commander insisted things were different here than they were in the Fleet.

  So it was natural that Hancock would unquestioningly involve Avery in any secret plan to undermine the captain’s authority.

  Except, Avery didn’t want to go against Thatcher. Yes, the whispered talk against the captain was plentiful—on the mess decks, in the ship’s quiet spots, and even in the engine room, or so Avery had heard. There was always talk about what a hardass Thatcher was, or about the lack of prize money. But Avery had noticed that it was always the same people complaining, and their listeners often made only noncommittal sounds, and wore carefully guarded expressions.

  There’s enough talk to make you think everyone hates the captain. But I respect him. And I bet a lot of others do, too. They’re just afraid to say it, for fear of being outcast.

  He didn’t want to undermine Thatcher, or mutiny, or defect, or whateve
r it was Hancock had in mind. But the XO actually seemed to be considering it. And if the XO would go against Thatcher…what hope was there? For him, or for Frontier Security in its current form?

  Avery had a family back on Mars—a wife and twin sons—and he wanted to get back to them. He woke every morning now to the thought of the Xanthic infiltrating the enclosed colony where they lived, and he wanted nothing more than to protect them, to fight the yellow bugs back into whatever hole they came from.

  He couldn’t do that by defecting, or mutinying. In fact, he saw Captain Thatcher as his way back to Sol System, if a way even existed. Because everyone knew the captain wanted the same thing.

  Then again, if the marines on this shuttle turned against Thatcher, against Frontier—what could Avery do? If he died opposing them, he definitely wouldn’t get back to Sarah and the boys.

  “I’m with you,” the XO said, and Avery’s heart sank. “Now tell me what you’re planning.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Aboard the New Jersey

  Epact System, Dupliss Region

  Earth Year 2290

  “Who is it?” Thatcher asked, his thumb on the intercom button while his eyes remained glued to the holoscreen, where he’d been shuffling ship icons around the Epact System in an attempt to foresee how the coming engagement would likely unfold.

  “I am Hans Mittelman,” said a voice with a slight German accent. “Ms. Rose asked me to come speak with you.”

  Thatcher sniffed sharply, staring at the closed hatch. He was loathe to waste time he could be using to plan on chitchat. “What’s your position with Frontier?”

  “It wouldn’t be wise to say so while standing in an open passageway, with your crew scurrying to and fro.”

  Frowning, Thatcher tapped the button to unlock the hatch. “Come in.”

  The hatch swung open to reveal a man who looked about as old as Thatcher but had already gone completely gray, except for the shaggy patch of hair beneath his lower lip, which was still dark. He stepped over the lip of the hatch with a primness that matched his crisp, patterned black-and-gray blazer.

  Closing the hatch, he turned to fold his hands before him, the corners of his mouth curving as he studied Thatcher with sharp, storm-colored eyes. “May I sit, Commander?”

  Thatcher gave a curt nod.

  “You’ll forgive me for not observing the proper military protocol I know you’re so fond of,” Mittelman said, lowering himself to the chair in front of Thatcher’s desk and crossing one leg over the other. “Technically I would outrank you, if I had a rank. But like Ms. Rose, I do not. Either way, I won’t make you salute me.”

  “What’s your position with Frontier?”

  “Chief Intelligence Officer. Spymaster, you might as well call me, since officially no one knows Frontier even has a CIO. The savvy ones probably suspect we do, but I’m completely off the books. Works out well, come tax time.”

  Thatcher raised an eyebrow, unsure if that was a joke or not.

  “Suffice it to say I know what goes on aboard the New Jersey better than you do, especially now that young Ensign Devine blew his own cover.”

  Now how do you know that? Thatcher himself had only learned about Devine’s outburst a couple of hours ago. But he didn’t intend to give Mittelman the satisfaction of asking, or to provide him with the reaction he so clearly wanted. “Why are you here?”

  “I’ve obtained some information which seems important to your success as captain of the New Jersey. I alerted Ms. Rose to this information, and she instructed me to approach you, not only to offer the information, but also to offer you the full extent of my services. She barely trusts anyone with the knowledge of my existence, so you should take my presence as a profound compliment. You must be an impressive man indeed, to have earned her esteem.”

  Thatcher shrugged, unwilling to buy into the flattery.

  A fleeting frown passed across Mittelman’s face—a slight bunching of the brow, a twitch of the mouth. An inattentive observer would have missed the microexpression. He’s probing me. Searching for the levers that will let him manipulate me. Will he find them?

  “Of course, if you consider yourself too honorable to avail of a spymaster’s services, that’s your business.” Mittelman spoke just as smoothly as before, though with a certain flatness. “However, I strongly believe that to spurn my gifts would prove to your detriment.”

  “Is that so,” Thatcher said mildly. “Well, in my view, it wouldn’t be honorable to ignore a weapon available for use against an enemy. It would be stupid.”

  Mittelman nodded, and though his smile didn’t return, Thatcher sensed a renewed gravity in his next words. “Then I believe we will accomplish great things together, Commander. The information I have for you pertains to the situation aboard the Charger, your new pirate prize. There’s a high probability that situation will turn mutinous, with your XO and marine commander as key players.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I intercepted their communications, of course.”

  “How?”

  Mittelman smiled, when Thatcher would have expected annoyance. Either he has excellent control of himself, or his is an alien mind indeed.

  “It wouldn’t be wise for me to share my methods with you, Captain, for many reasons. One being OPSEC. The more people I tell about the techniques I use, the more likely it becomes that defenses will be developed against them. Another reason is that you will likely judge my methods unsavory.”

  And a third reason: he’s almost certainly using those same methods on me.

  Maybe Mittelman had a sense of Thatcher’s train of thought, since he quickly spoke again. “I should stress just how vital operational security is for my work. You yourself recognized the issue when you refused to share your battle plan with your officers.”

  Mittelman hadn’t been flying with the Jersey and the Squall then—clearly, he had other methods of intelligence gathering than mere communications interception. Much older methods, if Thatcher were to guess.

  “The fact is,” the CIO went on, “the Dawn Cluster is a fluid environment, and individuals can enjoy handsome rewards by providing information to those who should not have it. Spies have been a problem since the first corporations began operating here, but now that the wormhole has closed and tensions are rising, I can virtually guarantee the problem will get ten times worse.”

  “Giving you fantastic job security.”

  “Indeed.”

  Thatcher nodded. “Well, I appreciate you coming to me. As for the situation aboard the Charger, I intend to do nothing. I sensed the major was capable of treachery the moment I met him, but the jury’s out on Candle. And so, it’s time to give him enough rope to hang himself. If he turns on us, it will be at the worst possible time, I’m sure—but I am prepared for the eventuality.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Aboard the Sabre

  Epact System, Dupliss Region

  Earth Year 2290

  The familiar lurch of system jumping, and then the Sabre arrived in Epact.

  “Active sensor sweeps right away, Earl,” said the frigate’s captain, a long-time buccaneer named Cassandra Beitler. “Tell me what you see.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” her sensor operator said, peering at his display. “The other five ships successfully made the jump as well.”

  “Very good.” She’d know more once data started coming in from the active sweeps. They would trumpet their arrival to the entire system, but she felt sure that this Thatcher was closely monitoring every system jump zone anyway. He’s not to be underestimated. At least, not based on what her new business partners told her.

  A tiny thrill shot through her at that phrase: business partners. It spoke of the new opportunities emerging on the Dawn Cluster’s periphery, opportunities she never thought she would live to see. For decades, it had always been her and her crew, a tight-knit bunch she considered something close to family. Preying on unaccompanied mining vessels, raiding small ou
tposts—this was their bread and butter. But now, they all shared in the excitement of something bigger. Something grander.

  A pirate corp. Could it really be possible? She thought about it every day, and she still couldn’t see a reason why not.

  The Sabre’s crew would be perfect for such an organization, she knew. Yes, they shared strong bonds, but they were also professional, in defiance of the stereotypes most people held about pirates. She’d never venture to call what they did respectable work, but they did it well. And she knew plenty of other captains whose crews were almost as effective. Yes. This can work.

  But I need to focus on the matter at hand. She forced herself out of her daydreaming, her gaze landing on Earl Van de Hey, once more, who was hunched over his console, squinting at it fiercely.

  “What do you see, Earl?”

  “It’s the Charger, ma’am. She’s approaching our formation.”

  She cocked her head sideways. “Donnie Middleton’s ship? I thought she was destroyed.”

  “Apparently not. They left her intact, for whatever reason. She’s alone. Of the Frontier and Sunder vessels, I’m seeing the light cruiser and destroyer orbiting near Prosper Station, but no sign of their electronic warfare or logistics ships.”

  “The Charger’s hailing us, ma’am,” her coms operator said.

  I don’t trust any of this. “Put it through.”

  A man with ebony skin and bright green eyes appeared on the bridge’s main display. “Greetings.”

  “Who are you? And where’s Captain Middleton?”

  “I’m Lieutenant Commander Billy Candle, with Frontier Security. Mr. Middleton surrendered to my CO, Commander Thatcher. He’s still aboard the Charger, but as a prisoner.”

  “Then prepare to be fired on,” Beitler said, her voice cold. Just as she saw her crew as family, she considered the captains the Sabre shared hot-zone space with to be extended family. Other than the occasional pirate-on-pirate raid, of course…but she only did that to commanders she disliked.