by Eric Thomson
“I sure won’t call them Star Wolves. That would be giving the bastards a compliment they don’t deserve.”
“Then don’t mention them at all. It’ll be better that way, for us and the mission.”
She slowed her pace when they emerged from the side street into a large plaza dominated by a tall, central pyramid. The construct’s top tier seemed to merge with the cavern ceiling as if it were supporting the weight of the spinning asteroid.
“I think we’re here.”
“Your bazaar reminds me of the underground Casbah in Hadley,” Zack said, a sad smile twisting his lips, “except cleaner and less aromatic.”
“And safer.” She pulled him out of the way while she scanned the perimeter. “Or to be more accurate, it’s safer if you stick to the station’s rules. The policing here tends to be a bit harsher than elsewhere.”
“Personal experience?”
“I try to learn from the experience of others. You should try it someday.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“To each his own I suppose.” She nodded towards the left side of the plaza. “Let’s try over there.”
“Any reason why there and not in the other direction?”
“Was that an idle question or do you want a lesson in field craft?”
“Both.” He matched his stride to hers, heedless of people stepping out of their way to avoid being run down.
“Then pay attention, Ser Gant. I’ll explain this only once. See the rather subdued sign for a ship chandlery over there?”
“Sure.”
“That’s where we’ll order the fresh foodstuff you’ll need to cook me some gourmet meals.”
“Thanks for that completely unneeded reminder, funny lady.”
“And it’s bound to be the place most starship officers visit when they touch port, so the owner likely knows more of what’s going on along this part of the Rim - at least when it comes to dodgy business - than the average tavern proprietor.”
“I see,” Decker nodded, “a local and very informal intelligence hub. That does make sense for once.”
“Careful, big boy.”
“I am that.”
“Careful?”
“No, big.”
She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow by way of reply.
They were halfway to their destination when a uniformed security officer stepped across their path. He wasn’t particularly menacing, but he did have a holstered blaster and a shock stick hanging from his belt.
“You are Dyne and Gant of Chimera?” He asked, looking from Talyn to Decker.
“We are,” Hera replied pleasantly, smiling. “I’m Captain Dyne and the big boy here is Gant, my first mate.”
“The port controller has asked to see you. If you’ll follow me.” He gestured towards the pyramid.
Hera looked at Zack, eyebrows raised, then she shrugged before nodding.
“I’d ask you what this is about, but I’ll bet your answer is going to be that you don’t know.”
“Correct.” The man replied, deadpan, and set off without looking back, confident that the two newcomers would follow him.
**
The port controller’s office turned out to be a relatively austere thing: a few pieces of furniture, the expected terminal, large view screens and not much more. The woman behind the desk seemed to be cut from the core of the asteroid itself: hard, craggy, and topped by hair that bristled like a steel brush.
She didn’t waste any time on niceties, merely waving towards two hard chairs in front of her desk by way of greeting.
“You’re Dyne and Gant of Chimera.” It wasn’t a question. She glanced at her terminal and back at the two operatives.
“We are,” Talyn confirmed.
“And you own Chimera? Or is it owned by a third party?” Her tone was matter-of-fact, emotionless. It matched her expression.
“We own it.”
“You have the appropriate documentation to prove ownership?”
“Indeed.” Talyn nodded. “May I ask what this is about?”
“As a law-abiding entity, we keep a lookout for vessels reported to have been taken through illegal means. Chimera is of a tonnage and configuration that approximates a ship called Syrah, stolen in the Nabhka system approximately one year ago.”
She paused, looking for some sort of reaction, but if she had hopes of witnessing a guilty glance between the two spacers, these were immediately dashed.
“We’ve owned Chimera for over five years,” Talyn replied.
“You’ll understand that I have to verify your claim of ownership.”
“It’s hardly a claim,” Decker said, shrugging. “More like a fact.”
Talyn fished a data wafer from her breast pocket and slid it across the desk.
“Proof of ownership,” she said.
“Thank you.” Eyes locked on her screen, the port controller downloaded a copy of the relevant documentation before returning the chip.
“Your proof seems to be in order, but of course, those things can be faked. I’ll still need to have your ship inspected.”
Again, the search for a reaction.
“We have nothing to hide.”
“And we’ll establish that quickly enough, Captain Dyne. The owners of Syrah have provided us with detailed specs to use as a baseline for comparison.”
“Who would these owners be? Or is that confidential?” Decker asked.
“The request was made via the Avalon Corporation on behalf of the conglomerate that owns both. Are you familiar with Avalon?”
“Private Military Corporation.” Decker shrugged again. “One of the bigger operations. Checkered reputation, but compared to some of the others, not all bad.”
The woman stared at him for a few seconds, then glanced back at her screen.
“My people are waiting by your airlock. I presume that you’ve rigged your ship to prevent unauthorized entry. Therefore, I’ll ask you to return to the docking slip and cooperate with the inspector.”
“Of course.” Talyn inclined her head politely. “I assume that we may go?”
“Correct.”
As they were about to leave the office, she spoke again.
“Be advised that if you’ve lied and are indeed operating a ship reported taken from its rightful owners, we will hand you over to said owners for disposition. Out here on the Rim, people don’t always involve Commonwealth authorities, especially when it comes to pirates.”
“As a ship owner myself, I wouldn’t wish it any other way,” Talyn smoothly replied, giving the port controller a quick smile. “Come now, Ser Gant, let’s not keep the inspectors in suspense.”
**
“Why wait until we’d disembarked?” Decker asked once they were back outside and headed for the docking ring. “They could have greeted us at the airlock with this little spiel.”
“It’s likely that they tried to get into the ship with us absent to conduct their inspection and found your little enhancements to our security. If we’d passed muster, we’d have been no wiser, and if they determined it was stolen, they’d have picked us up on the station with minimal fuss.”
“Smart.” Decker nodded. “Much easier than to come on like a herd of elephants with plasma carbines.”
“Something to remember, eh?” Talyn chuckled.
“I can be as subtle as the best of them. Except when it comes to my sense of humor, I suppose,” he added after a moment’s thought.
“Correct,” she replied, imitating the port controller’s tone. “There’s nothing discrete about that. The next time we have to set up a drop zone, I’ll program the markers.”
“And I’ll just reprogram them at leisure.”
They walked in silence for a while before he asked, “Is this kind of procedure normal? Checking out ships that look like others who’ve vanished?”
“Yes and no. The Navy and Constabulary issue be on the lookout for bulletins every time a starship is declared overdue and presum
ed lost by its owners. Actually inspecting a ship on suspicion of being stolen is a bit unusual, even on the Rim.”
“The long arm of the Coalition?”
“Perhaps. We’ve got the only recording of Amali’s execution, and the desert nomads are the only other eyewitnesses. Considering that they’re more likely to offer the same end to any Sécurité Spéciale goon than testify, Amali’s friends in high places are probably still trying to find out what happened, if only to make sure they don’t suffer the same fate.”
**
Six humans wearing station security uniforms waited for them at the bottom of the docking arm. There was nothing subtle about the weapons they carried.
Dyne and Gant were to be considered dangerous until the authorities established to their satisfaction that Chimera was not the ship that had belonged to Harmon Amali, a man last seen at his oasis hideout in the Nabhkan desert, said hideout now lying in ruins, its waters back under the control of nomad clans.
“Captain Dyne,” the team leader politely nodded at her the moment they stepped off the spiral staircase. “If you’d please disarm your systems so we can conduct our inspection?”
Talyn glanced at Decker and jerked her head towards the airlock.
“Open her up, Ser Gant.”
When Zack’s had rendered his booby traps safe, the inspector motioned him to stand aside and let his men step aboard. Though Decker remained expressionless, he was surprised that they didn’t send him in first.
Some day the station’s rent-a-cops would come across folks who either forgot to disarm all of the security measures or leave some active on purpose and then where would they be? With a shrug, he complied.
The search took hours. Four members of the security team were equipped with detailed specs of Syrah, and they consulted them frequently, measuring compartments, verifying component serial numbers, and their unique manufacturing tags, measuring power emission curves and much more.
Decker followed one pair around while Talyn followed the other, answering questions clearly designed to test their knowledge of the ship. Zack was glad Hera had made them crawl through every tube, examine every nook and cranny, and memorize every detail of the layout during their passage to Kilia.
It proved impossible for either agent to determine whether or not the inspectors found anything suspicious and at the end of it, the team departed without saying a word, pausing only to collect the duo they’d left guarding the airlock.
“So?” He asked once the armored hatch shut them off from the docking arm.
She reached out and brushed his hand with dancing fingertips, spelling out a message in the tactile code used by naval intelligence agents.
They probably bugged us.
Zack nodded his agreement. Their hands reversed position so he could signal.
If the engineers forgot to hide something that could link us back, they’ll wait until we’re both off the ship to take it and us.
It was her turn to nod.
“It’s been a long day, Zack,” she said aloud. “Why don’t you go get us stocked up with fresh food while I put the ship to rights. Our friendly inspectors weren’t exactly subtle.”
Her fingers signaled although we shouldn’t stick around longer than necessary, if we leave right away, it’ll look suspicious.
“Good idea,” he replied. “Any special requests?”
“Stick to fruit and veggies. I doubt their protein vats grow anything better than the rations we’ve got.”
“I’ll see. A good vat steak is pretty much indistinguishable from what passes for beef in most outer systems.”
“At your discretion, then. Just don’t overspend. Until we get a contract, we’re living off savings,” she added, for any hidden listening devices.
Her fingers danced one last time. While you’re out, I’ll see if they left anything nasty behind.
If you find something, don’t touch it until I’m back, he replied, blowing her a kiss before opening the hatch again.
SIX
“So?” Talyn looked up from her scanner when Decker stepped through the airlock, burdened with what seemed like an entire food locker’s worth of victuals.
“I got plenty of fruit, veggies and meat – vat meat, but it looks good.” He dropped his bags and reached out to touch the back of her hand.
We need to talk. Did you find anything?
She nodded, but said, “Go stow the stuff. I’ll look at it later.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” He winked.
“Once that’s done, you and I are going to take a close look at the inside of your forward launcher. Something needs to be adjusted, but I’m damned if I can figure out what that is.”
“That’s why you hired me.”
He vanished down the passageway, whistling an out of tune ditty.
**
As an improvised conference room, the missile compartment left a lot to be desired. Once Talyn shut the hatch behind her, they were more intimate than if they’d just hopped into a one-person bunk.
“This is one of the few places they didn’t seed with microscopic bugs,” she said after Decker finished snuggling up to her. “The rest of the ship is lousy with them. You told me you needed to talk?”
“We have to leave this place quickly and quietly. There are a few too many folks distinctly interested in us, or rather our ship, more so than just a harbor master doing due diligence with the BOLO list.”
“Explain.”
“Item one: the man running the chandlery acted like a terrified rabbit the moment I walked in; he couldn’t throw me out, but I’ve never been served so quickly anywhere. Of course, the goon in station security get-up hiding in the backroom probably had something to do with it. We won’t get anything out of him short of a mind probe.”
“Damn.”
“Item two: the Confederacy of the Howling Stars definitely has a chapter on this station, and they’re well connected. I saw two of them having a quiet chat with the guy who inspected our ship. No mistaking the affiliation – they wore gang tattoos. I’d say there’s a good chance the Jackals are interested in us.”
“And the organized crime section is pretty sure they’re in deep with the Sécurité Spéciale.” Talyn nodded.
“Yup. Item three: I was tailed by more of the Jackals from the moment I left the docking arm to the moment I returned, and they weren’t too subtle about it.”
“Item four: I saw a military-looking type with an Avalon corporate pin on his suit having a drink with the head Jackal I spotted when we first went ashore. Both took a good long look at me, like they’d seen pictures of Zack Decker and figured I could be related to him. Somehow, the idea that one of the biggest private military corporations is in cahoots with mobsters doesn’t give me the warm and fuzzies.”
“Either Captain Ulrich didn’t find whoever was leaking information to the Sécurité Spéciale,” Talyn replied after digesting Zack’s report, “or they have a new source in place, or it could just be coincidence related to the search for the late Harmon Amali and his yacht.”
“Occam’s Razor, honey.” Decker tried to shrug in the confined space. “Our mission was tightly compartmentalized. I doubt the bastards know we’re Fleet. Chances are good there’s a substantial bounty on Syrah, enough to get the Jackals interested, and because of that, every ship within the right tonnage range and of similar configuration is under the microscope. Avalon involvement is a no-brainer. They almost caught us right after we stole the ship and their management will have had its collective butt kicked for not closing the deal.”
“Most likely,” she conceded. “My paranoia does have me jump to the worst case scenario all too often. Considering the Amali family has enough money to make it interesting, the possibility of a bounty seems pretty good, now that I think of it, especially if the rest of the Coalition inner circle kicks in a few million creds of their own.”
“What do we do?”
“We leave. There’s no way we’ll pick up a trace on Kilia now.
The station’s management has apparently been co-opted by Sécurité Spéciale goons via their Jackal puppets.”
“So much for this place staying on the straight and narrow.”
“When the choice is between keeping gangsters with a gun at your head happy and keeping the Fleet happy when it only sends a frigate through the system four times a year, it’s no contest.”
Zack grunted. After a moment, he said, “I can wipe out all of the bugs at once the moment you want me to. A small electromagnetic pulse will do it. They can’t put enough shielding on things that tiny. It won’t do squat to our systems, though we should make sure all of our loose items are stored in a shielded box. Of course, the moment I do that, they’ll know we’re on to them. A few devices failing would be normal. All of them at once, no.”
“The bigger question is undocking and getting away if they’re inclined to keep us put until they can get confirmation. Unless we’re willing to tear off part of the airlock and brave their guns, they can keep us here at will, and I’m not ready to risk damaging the ship.”
Zack’s mouth curved into a smile.
“Leave it to me.”
“Why do I have a bad feeling about this?”
“Because I never bluff unless I have something up my sleeve?”
“No, that’s not it. Perhaps because you have the habit of doing unexpected things that both frighten and irritate those of us doomed to work with you.”
“And yet you and I are still an item in the wonderful world of black ops.”
“Should I ask, or should I just play along while you invent a way out, probably making it up on the spot?”
“What would be your preference?”
“Tell me.”
He did, and when he was done, she nodded slowly, evaluating their chances.
“It’s stupid enough that it just might work, though I shudder to think what could happen if your plan goes sideways.”
“Not a chance.” His grin turned predatory. “They won’t want to risk their precious station.”