Salvage Conquest

by Chris Kennedy

  If Heir Griboth noticed the intricacy of the political sparring, he didn’t show it. He’d already become engaged in conversation with Flamediver’s executive officer, who nodded her head at each of the Heir’s instructions. Doubtless, Griboth felt undergunned, taking only a single ship into an unknown system like this, but his attitude didn’t show it, which was a credit to his nerve.

  * * *

  Per plan, Flamediver went to extreme power-down mode. Days were spent drifting inexorably toward the target world, which grew noticeably in size every time Councilman Nyfid braved an exterior compartment long enough to look. Temperatures had turned quite frigid in the exterior places of the vessel, and many of the crew with quarters on the exterior had been forced to double- or triple-bunk with comrades posted to compartments in the interior. All broadcast equipment was off. No laser communications were active either. Only a passive detection system was kept operating, using the vessel’s array of radar and gravimetric sensors. Even the reaction control system which ordinarily kept Flamediver trim, was kept off so the ship gradually fell into a gentle slow-motion tumble.

  At which point Nyfid became especially grateful for the machinery beneath the floor, which did not have to be turned off, since it wouldn’t trip anyone else’s gravimetric sensor system.

  Since Councilwoman Jazlin tended to stay holed up in one of the ship’s storm cellars, Nyfid did as he promised and joined her. The storm cellars were Flamediver’s last defense against either an intense solar event or the use of radiation weaponry designed to kill the crew and fry electronics—while leaving the superstructure of the ship, itself, intact. A solid half meter jacket of lead surrounded each storm cellar, and each storm cellar could be jettisoned in an emergency to act as a kind of lifeboat.

  Very smart on the Councilwoman’s part, Nyfid thought.

  Their talk tended to be mostly business, and they each deliberately tried to stay away from past contentious topics which had dominated Council sessions not focused explicitly on Heir Taga.

  Occasionally, Heir Griboth would appear and report on the ship’s progress.

  “Has there been any sign of any life, whether it’s Uldarran in origin or not?” Jazlin asked on the fourth day of their ordeal.

  “Here and there,” the younger man said. “Indications are that there’s been some recent fighting in orbit around the third largest jovian, which is interior to the largest jovian on the sequence. We’re seeing signs of explosions and what may be ship wreckage. As well as encrypted communications which we won’t ever be able to decipher.”

  “Human? Or something else?” Nyfid asked.

  Heir Griboth shook his head.

  “We can’t tell from this distance,” he admitted. “It could be a fight among men, or it could be men against something else. Or maybe not men at all?”

  “Maybe we guessed wrong, about which gas giant Heir Taga is using,” Jazlin said.

  “I don’t think so,” Griboth replied.

  “Explain, please?” the older woman asked—more of a command than a question.

  “If my sister’s purpose is to inflict damage on Uldarran space exclusively, she wouldn’t waste so much as a single missile tangling with another force operating in this system. As soon as she identified that one of these planets was already under a potential opponent’s thumb, she’d have altered course and chosen another world. So far, the gas giant we’re hurtling toward hasn’t shown any sign of being inhabited. Not its satellites, anyway. The planet, itself, is like a lot of jovians. Swirling, very hot gas storms layered on top of each other. We’re getting some spectacular high-resolution imagery, if you want to see it. Those storms and that heat have cooked up a colorful soup of complex molecules. A much more beautiful view than anything we’ve got in Uldarran space. Taga would be attracted to that.”

  “Let us hope your instincts about your sister are correct.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Griboth said, bowing his chin to his chest. Then he turned and departed the storm cellar, leaving Nyfid and Jazlin alone.

  “He’s deliberately shying away from the fact he’s probably going to have to kill her,” Nyfid said, after a very long, very pregnant pause to be sure the storm cellar hatch had completely closed behind the Heir.

  “Wouldn’t you?” Jazlin asked. “He’s hoping there’s some way to save her, and I don’t blame him. Somehow, there’s an explanation for all this that doesn’t end with Heir Taga’s execution. Whether by her brother’s hand in battle or by firing squad. He’s going to work very, very hard to find that explanation.”

  “And you won’t?” Nyfid said, the corner of his mouth curling up.

  “I know you think I am a credulous and doting woman,” Jazlin snapped, “but you don’t know these children. If I’d had questions about Taga’s character, I’d never have let her put on a uniform, much less rise to gain her own command. I’d have diverted her interests to something more suitable. Such as the Council, itself.”

  “Nice to know you have such a high opinion of our vocation,” Nyfid said, allowing himself sarcasm. “Does that opinion include you as well, or are you magically exempted from the rot that creeps its fingers into lesser souls than yours?”

  Jazlin opened her mouth to retort, then let the silence hang between them for a second. Then she closed her mouth and shook her head, her eyes closed.

  “You make me tired, Councilman,” she said wearily.

  “The feeling is mutual, Councilwoman,” Nyfid replied, also feeling weary.

  “In all the time we’ve served together, we always seem to do this. You and me. The game. I used to take it as an intellectual challenge, Nyfid, but the last few years, I’ve lost my enthusiasm for verbal sparring. Especially the kind which involves playing one way against your opponent, while appearing to play another way for the crowd. Don’t think I didn’t realize what you did on the bridge when we got here. That was well done, and I like to think I might have made a similarly instinctive maneuver in your place. But then, I just go back to being exhausted with you. Especially now. I think the Council needs better from both of us than what we’re used to giving.”

  This was a line of conversation Nyfid had not expected. True candor felt almost alien to his Council-honed sensibilities. But then again, when had been the last time he and Jazlin had actually just talked to each other? Without it being part of the big dance of egos and strategies? Had they ever? He honestly could not recall.

  The result was a feeling of distinct discomfort.

  “And just what is it, exactly, that you think we are failing to deliver?” he asked.

  Councilwoman Jazlin took three steps toward her old nemesis and looked up into his face. Nyfid had seldom been this close to her. Almost always, they had argued across the Council floor. But now, he was close enough to touch her and see the way age had pulled down and wrinkled what had once been striking beauty. Like him, the decades had not passed by her without cost. Both of them now required the geriatric therapy which almost all of the Council relied upon to keep them healthy beyond the lifespan of an ordinary Uldarran Colonist. They all told themselves it was a necessary part of their work. That their labor—atop society—was complex and difficult enough to require special measures. The kind of expensive, rare medicine most people would never see in their shorter, less fortunate lives.

  Nyfid’s mouth suddenly tasted very unpleasant. He waited for her answer.

  “A true willingness to put Uldarran’s best interests ahead of our own selfish gain,” Jazlin finally said, without blinking.

  “I can assure you—” Nyfid began to say, but she cut him off.

  “Ohhh ship it out the airlock, Nyfid!” she shouted, startling him. “Don’t you get it, even now? Our government is just a tiny speck in an ocean of shifting fortune. When we sent Heir Taga through the gate, we tasked her with doing what we, ourselves, seemed too afraid to do: look at the Milky Way for what it truly is, and in one glance. Not turning away. Not pretending that somehow we’ve made ourselves impreg
nable with our pride and honor. The men of the Trubuk League, and those wretched beasts from the Mng-Gek System, they’re just small-time villains compared to what’s out here. Salvage System was going to be Heir Taga’s handle on the bigger picture. So that, hopefully, she could secure for us what’s needed to have a true future.”

  “But she failed,” Nyfid said, trying to anticipate Jazlin’s running train of thought.

  “Or did she?” Jazlin said, slapping a fist into a palm, then turning and walking twice in a circle.

  Nyfid opened his mouth to respond, but suddenly, the light in the storm cellar went from ordinary soft white to emergency orange.

  “ALERT! THIS IS A BATTLE ALERT! ALL CREW TO ASSIGNED STATIONS! ALERT! THIS IS A BATTLE ALERT!”

  The repeating voice was that of the Flamediver’s computer.

  The Councilman and the Councilwoman spared half a second to gawk between them, then they were almost tripping each other, rushing for the storm cellar hatch.

  * * *

  When the enemy ships came, there was no mistaking that they had been manufactured at Uldarran shipyards. A dozen of them—ranging in size from light scouts up to a single, large cruiser—curled up and away from their separate orbits around four of the jovian planet’s ice moons. Their trajectories could not be mistaken. All of them would intersect the Flamediver from various directions and at various attitudes. Some of them would take over an hour to intercept. Assuming their missiles did not intercept first.

  “What happened?” Nyfid gasped as he and Jazlin co-trooped onto the bridge. They were wheezing and practically leaning on each other as they each braced both hands on the railing running around the holographic basin.

  “They’ve seen us,” the captain said, deadpan.

  “I think that’s obvious to us all,” Jazlin said breathlessly. “But what went wrong that they saw us this far out?”

  “Does it matter?” Heir Gribboth said, also deadpan. “The fact is we have the entirety of my sister’s command bearing down on us. If Flamediver were the mightiest of dreadnaughts, we could not hope to defeat all of them in ship-to-ship combat!”

  “So what is our alternative?” Nyfid demanded, his breathing becoming less ragged. He finally straightened himself and ran a hand over his sweaty face before placing both hands, locked together, at the small of his back.

  “Talk to them,” Jazlin said. “We were going to have to do that sooner or later anyway. Now, it’s going to be sooner.”

  “If they will even listen,” Nyfid said dryly.

  “Taga will listen to me,” Heir Griboth said, his jaw muscles flexing on the side of his head. He whirled a finger in the air to signal the communications officer. A small light went on above the holographic basin, bathing Griboth’s face. He spoke into the light as if speaking directly to his kin.

  “Tag,” he said with gentle familiarity, “it’s Grib. I’m not here to fight you. You have to know that, based on the fact that we’re just a single ship against your whole squadron. If you want to, you can blow us all into space, and there’s not much we can do about it. But that’s not why I’ve come. Please let me know you’re there. I have to find out…I have to find out what happened to you.”

  The light went out, and Heir Griboth’s face fell into shadow.

  Minutes stretched by with no response, as the flashing red holographic sigils of Heir Taga’s squadron continued to close on the single, green holographic sigil that was Flamediver. Nyfid kept his posture erect, even while perspiration beaded underneath his Council-conservative clothing. He knew that silence, in and of itself, could be an answer, and with each passing minute, the silence would more loudly spell their doom. Because Griboth was correct. Flamediver could not hope to outfight the entire command. Oh, with a few well-placed salvos, Flamediver might cripple two or three of the smaller ships. Just to be destroyed in place, while the rest of the squadron remained intact. To continue savaging Uldarran space, using Uldarran weapons, and Uldarran technology.

  There had to be a better alternative.

  A little blinking blue light above the holographic basin indicated a responding signal to Heir Griboth’s. The Heir flipped a thumb over his shoulder, and the communications officer fed the image to the basin’s projection equipment.

  A woman’s face resolved. Not beautiful per se, but possessing strong, familiar lines. There were hints of her grandfather—Overlord Vo’s father—in the shape of her eyes and, especially, the pronounced jut of her chin. She did not smile, nor reveal any other emotion. After blinking twice, she spoke.

  “You should not have come, Grib. I don’t know what good you thought you could do here, but you have to realize, I can’t let you go. Surrender your ship, and you and your crew will live. Resist either me or my command, you’re all dead. It’s a simple choice. Let me know what it will be.”

  After a few moments of stunned silence, Nyfid motioned for the Flamediver’s side of the conversation to be muted, and he hissed, “Well?”

  “Well, what?” Heir Griboth said.

  “Was it her?” Nyfid pressed.

  “Of course, it was her,” Jazlin said mockingly.

  “And did she seem . . . off?” Nyfid asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was there something wrong with her?” Nyfid barked. “Something about her tone or the quality of her speech that says she’s not her usual self.”

  “I…I honestly couldn’t tell,” Heir Griboth said, his voice cracking. Now that he’d actually seen her and heard her voice—issuing an ultimatum—the Heir seemed shaken.

  “It was her,” Councilwoman Jazlin said, sighing. “And no, she didn’t seem ‘off’ at all. I know that look in her eye. She is determined. Unhappy. But still determined.”

  “Let me talk to her,” Nyfid said over his shoulder, his eyes on the communications station. The seated officer looked to the captain, who glanced at the Heir—still rattled—and then nodded.

  This time, the light beamed down directly at the Councilman, who still held himself erect, his hands overlapped at the base of his spine.

  “Heir Taga,” Nyfid said with careful modulation—not too much force, but not sounding soft, either, “you may or may not recognize me. But I am here on behalf of the Council. And your matriarch-chosen is with me too, as well as your brother.”

  There was a small pause as the transmission covered the distance between the ships—which was still considerable.

  “Maza,” said the holographic face of Taga. Her eyes gone wide.

  “It’s me, my dear,” Councilwoman Jazlin said, allowing herself a genuinely fond smile as the spotlight focused on her. “I wouldn’t be here except for the fact that your uncle insisted upon it. We’re all very, very worried about you.”

  Heir Taga swallowed several times, then frowned.

  “Maza, you should not have come,” she said.

  “Tell me something I don’t already know,” Jazlin said with a small chuckle.

  “I mean it,” Heir Taga said loudly.

  Jazlin’s smile dropped quickly.

  “Heir Taga,” Nyfid said, still carefully modulating himself, “you have to understand that something very serious and very terrible has happened in Uldarran space since your departure on your mission to Salvage System. You never reported back. No word was received. And something more: the Colonies have been ruthlessly attacked several times in the past few months by ships bearing an uncanny resemblance to your ships, operating fighters flown by pilots displaying your command’s emblem. Unless you care to lay out a lengthy and detail-precise explanation for all this, the Council—in emergency quorum, called by the Overlord himself!—is prepared to declare you and your entire squadron an imminent threat to Uldarran Colonial security.”

  Nyfid paused briefly and tried to gauge the visual response. Taga was listening, but there didn’t seem to be any emotion in her eyes, the way she had shown emotion upon learning Jazlin was aboard.

  He switched gears rapidly, using his experience from
Council quarrels to flip his tone from that of someone making a threat to that of someone trying to be a friend.

  “Your hit-and-run approach won’t work forever, you know,” he said softly, coming out of his rigid stance and moving his arms out slightly from his sides, palms facing toward the beam of the camera’s spotlight. “Security systems and their encrypted software are already being changed. Eventually, you’ll be as locked out and visible as any other harassment force sent by any other enemy of the Colonies. Your only hope of not dying ignobly—as both a disgrace and a traitor—is to stand down your squadron now. Bring yourself aboard our ship via one of your executive launches—not a gunboat, let’s be clear—and prepare to submit to our inquiry. If all of this has been some kind of colossal misunderstanding, we can get to the bottom of it, without firing a shot. But you have to act now, before things accelerate, and all of us end up paying the ultimate price.”

  Nyfid made sure his face had a pleading, but sincere, expression. He’d spent a fair amount of time practicing for camera playback, so as to be sure he knew exactly what the right muscles felt like, when he wanted that particular look.

  The image of Heir Taga swallowed a couple more times and seemed to be considering his words.

  She spoke.

  “Maza told me about you. She told me she admired your skill with Council matters a great deal. While despising the fact that such skill was often used for selfish and petty ends.”

  Councilman Nyfid tried to keep his face straight and failed. If he could have reached out a hand and slapped the Councilwoman, he would have. But he brought his hands around in front of his pelvis and used them to support himself against the holographic basin’s railing—looking almost directly into the overly large, bright image of the Heir.

  Again, his instinct for audience kicked in.