Six

 

Adamstown mining station

Adam Bolin sat silently, staring at the blinking red light on the comm panel on his desk.

“That will be ‘Mr. K,’ Remy Brichot observed.

“No shit.”

“He’s wanting to know where his shipment is, Boss,” Brichot said. “We’ll have to tell him something.”

“Tell him what? That the Orlando just disappeared?”

“There’s nothing like the truth, Boss.”

“I can’t tell him that,” Bolin snapped. “All right. All right.”

There was nothing else to be done. Bolin picked up the handset and said, “All right, put him through.”

A moment later, the high-pitched rattle of ‘Mr. K’ came through the handset. “My diamonds, Mr. Bolin, are almost nine days overdue.”

Bolin translated quickly in his head; nine Grugell days was about seven Earth days. “I’m aware of that fact, Mr. K. We’ve heard from the freighter; she’s having some drive problems here in the Belt.”

There was a pensive silence from the other end. Damn, Bolin thought, but they’ve got to be close, to send a real-time radio signal like this. Where the hell are they? With a cloaked ship, they could be looking at me now.

“If you can give me the ship’s location,” the voice finally came back, “we could render assistance and conduct our business at the same time.”

“Ordinarily, Mr. K, I’d be happy to take you up on that,” Bolin evaded, “but we don’t have a good fix on their location, and navigating here in the Belt is tricky. If you can call me back in another few days, I should have more information for you.”

“I will not wait forever, Mr. Bolin,” the voice said.

“I do not intend for you to do so,” Bolin replied. “My miners are working double shifts now, to make up another shipment – if we can’t get this ship moving, we’ll get another load headed your way within ten Standard Days.”

“Far from ideal.” Mr. K said, “Let us see what you can do to get that ship moving, shall we?”

“I’m working on that,” Bolin assured him.

“See that you do.” There was the sharp hiss of static as the signal was cut off at the source.

“Oh, shit,” Bolin groaned. “He’s not happy at all – and he’s probably sitting out there looking down the barrel of a blaster at us. How did I get into this mess?”

“Can’t even call the Navy for support,” Brichot said. “Since we’re in violation of the Treaty of Honshu by selling them the stuff in the first place.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

***

The K-110

Group Commander Kestakrickell IV looked up from the frigate’s Signals panel at Commander Chiksteskattitk II and grinned. “I told you he would dodge,” the Group Commander gloated.

“You were right, Group Commander, as always, of course. The question, of course, is what are we going to do now?”

“That debris field we found – that is surely the remains of the freighter. Now we have confirmed that this renegade Bolin is lying to us. Therefore he has lost control of his shipment, and this other Confederate, Baxter, has somehow seized it.”

“So we will deal with Baxter?”

“Of course! At the time and place appointed. And then we will accept the second shipment from Bolin.”

“I will give orders,” Chiksteskattitk said, bowing to his superior, “to take us to the rendezvous as planned.”

***

The Fleet space dock at Tarbos

“Starship Shade Tree,” the voice boomed out from the Bridge main speaker, “This is the Confederate Navy frigate Reuben James. Cut your engine and hold your position. Do not approach the dock, say again do not approach the dock or you will be fired on.”

“All stop,” Jean Barrett ordered. “Hold position here. Patch me through to the frigate.”

“Ready,” Elliot Frye called from Signals.

“Reuben James, this is Captain Barrett of the Shade Tree. What’s going on?”

“Shade Tree,” the voice came back, “Hold this position and prepare to be boarded. You are a reported plague ship, and can not be allowed to dock until we verify your status.”

“Very well,” Barrett replied, grinning. “We can receive a shuttle at our main docking port. You’ll find we’re all quite well here.”

“We have a medical team boarding the shuttle now, Shade Tree; they’ll have to be the judge of that.”

“Fine. Shade Tree out.”

Eight minutes later, the Shade Tree shuddered slightly as a gray Navy shuttle clunked against the docking port. Jean Barrett and Indira Krishnavarna were at the port to meet the two space-suited figures that emerged from the shuttle into the docking ring.

“My,” Barrett said, “Aren’t we cautious. Exactly what kind of plague do you think we’re carrying?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, Captain,” the taller of the two figures said through his suit intercom. “I’m Lieutenant Finley, Confederate Navy Medical Corps. This is Chief Pharmacist’s Mate Simpson. Permission to come aboard?”

“Granted.”

Finley, then Simpson stepped out of the docking ring into the ship. “Ma’am, I’ll have to scan your ship and take blood samples from your crew.”

“Very well.”

Finley looked around, awkwardly; the suit helmet restricted his movement. “How many crew do you have?”

“Thirty officers and crew.”

“Anyone ill at the moment?”

“My Security Chief has a bit of a hangover, but that’s not anything unusual.”

“Chief Simpson will do the scanning, Captain, if that’s all right. I’d like you to detail someone to escort him; he’ll have to scan every compartment. I’ll draw blood samples. Is there a compartment we can cycle the crew through for that?”

“I’ll show you to our infirmary; Doctor Dodd can provide anything you might need. Indira, will you show the Chief around?”

“My pleasure, Captain.”

“Good. Lieutenant, this way.”

***

Six hours later

“Shade Tree,” the call came without preamble, “This is Reuben James. You are cleared to proceed.”

“Thank you, Reuben James,” Barrett said into the mike. “Shade Tree out.”

She turned to her Exec. “Don’t you just love the Navy? Not a word of explanation, never an apology for holding us out here in the middle of nowhere, just “go ahead,” and an implied “if you hadn’t been clean, we’d have blown you out of space.”

“Nice to get a confirmation that we’re clean, anyway.”

“Yeah. Helm, ahead one-third, steady on last course. Signals, call ahead to the Fleet dock, get us a berth.”

“Already on it, Captain. Ahead one-third, on course as before. We’re about ten minutes out.”

“Berthing assignment, Pier Five, level C,” Signals called.

“Good enough. Indira, will you handle docking? I’m going to get ready to see some people.”

“I’ve got it,” the Exec agreed.

Barrett headed for her cabin, where she exchanged shipboard fatigues for a respectable-looking white silk blouse and black slacks. She was sitting on her bunk pulling on polished black heeled boots when she felt the slight jolt of docking.

Reaching up, she tapped her cabin’s signals panel. “Bridge, Exec speaking,” the panel replied.

“Indira, I’m going to see the Fleet Admiral, if I can. Tell Gomp and Adams that they’re ‘go.’ I expect I’ll be back in an hour or two. Nobody else leaves the ship. I want to be underway again inside of two hours.”

“As you wish, Captain. We’re refilling water and oxygen now; tanks will be topped off in forty minutes or less. We’ve already emptied our carbon tanks for recyc credit. B.J. Smith wants to go to the station to look for a replacement for a number three drive ring anti-matter injector that’s going south on us.”

“Can it wait until Halifax? Four days, tops?”

Murmuring noises came from the speaker for a moment. “He says no, unless you want to end up dead in space twenty parsecs from nowhere.”

“Fine, tell him to go ahead; he’s got two hours. Nobody else goes off the ship for any reason. I’m on my way.”

“We’ll be here.”

Barrett left her cabin and walked quickly to the docking port, ignoring a covert stare or two from crew members used to seeing their Captain in shipboard gear. She strode through the docking umbilical, let the Marine at the station side scan her ident chip, and asked directions to the main Flag offices. Ten minutes later, she was standing in front of a bored-looking Master Chief Petty Officer.

The Chief has the glazed look of someone who had been stuck in a desk job for too long. When she looked up at Barrett, she moved her arm, and Barrett realized why; the faint whine of servos gave away the presence of a prosthetic arm. Under the Chief’s uniform collar, Barrett could see the faint tracing of scars. The woman was fifty at best, a little on the heavy side, with dark blonde hair beginning to gray. Barrett smiled at the veteran.

The Chief smiled faintly in return. “What can I do for you?”

Barrett handed over her ident chip. “I’m here to see the Fleet Admiral. Will you tell him it’s Captain Jean Barrett of the Shade Tree?”

“Your lucky day, Captain; the Admiral is actually in port. He’s not here very often, you know. One moment.” The Chief stood up, more whining revealing prosthetic legs to go with the arm. She disappeared through the door behind her desk.

Ten seconds later Fleet Admiral Isaac Gauss himself burst through the door, grinning widely. “Captain Barrett!” he exploded. “Now this is one hell of a way to brighten up a boring Goddamn day in port. It’s good to see you, Captain!”

The Admiral was a little grayer and a little thinner than Barrett remembered. “It’s good to see you, Admiral,” she smiled, responding to the Admiral’s enthusiasm.

“Isaac, please, Isaac,” he corrected her. “You’re not Navy, and I’m about to retire. Please, come in. Chief Wilken, will you call down to the galley for coffee, please?”

“Right away, Admiral.”

Fleet Admiral Gauss shepherded Jean into his somewhat Spartan office. Unlike most of the private offices Barrett had seen on this and other stations, the Fleet Admiral’s walls showed only the aluminum cladding of the bulkheads, with few decorations; an old, faded United States flag, a newer Confederate flag, a case of rank insignia and awards from the U.S. Air Force and the Confederate Navy, and a framed picture of a smiling, gray-haired woman that Jean assumed was the Admiral’s wife.

A young Crewman-First brought in a tray of dark, aromatic coffee. Admiral Gauss seated Jean in a thick leather chair and insisted on serving her coffee before pouring his own and seating himself at his old gray government-issue desk.

“I hadn’t heard you were planning to retire,” Jean said.

“Only just decided. My wife,” the Admiral gestured towards the picture, confirming Barrett’s guess, “She’s giving up her House seat at the end of this term. We’ll be going back to Earth; our daughter lives there, and we have three grandkids now. It’s time.” He sipped at his coffee. “In the meantime, I’m still fighting the damned Congress for a few pennies here and there for training, beans, bullets, and maybe a new ship now and then. ‘Peace dividend’ and all that, they keep saying. Damned few of them read any history; they don’t seem to understand that there won’t be any peace for long if we don’t keep our Navy up.”

“I know,” Barrett agreed, “how expensive it is to keep just one ship going. We’ve had a decent year; even managed to upgrade our drive to the new Mark XI workings.”

“It’s been tough times for a former privateer,” Gauss observed. “Most of your colleagues have gone into some other line of work. That old pirate Johann Hess, he sold his ship at Earth, bought a two-man yacht, and vanished – where, nobody knows. Mysterious old fart, he was. How have you been getting along?”

“Hauling a little cargo,” Barrett evaded with a smile, “mostly small, high-value stuff people want moved fast. Electronics, pharms, the odd passenger – things like that.”

“Found you a niche, then,” Gauss said. “That’s good.” He took another sip of coffee and carefully examined the cup. “I haven’t heard that you had your ship’s armament dismounted.”

“I haven’t,” Jean said.

“Interesting,” Gauss replied, his face carefully neutral. “Legal, of course; it’s your ship.”

“It is. We operate close to the frontier, Admiral. The Grugell are still out there.”

“That’s what I keep telling Congress. Well, forget all that. You don’t want to listen to an old man complain about politicians. What can I do for you today, Jean?”

“I have some information that may interest you, Admiral. There’s a mining station out along the frontier we stumbled across a while back; I have reason to believe they’re selling material across the border.”

“To the Grugell, you mean.”

“Exactly.”

The Admiral’s eyes turned to polished flint. He leaned across his desk. “Tell me.”

***

Three levels down

Every Fleet dock boasted an impressive library, with ample computer terminals tied into the stations intranet. The main Fleet base at Tarbos was no exception, and the intranet on the Tarbos base was massive, with the main database updated regularly from the capital and from Earth, where over half of the Confederacy’s human population still lived.

The main database contained a wealth of information accessible to anyone. It also contained most of the Navy’s operational data, plans, schematics, and operations details, from mission orders to menus. These were on a secure server on the penultimate level of the station, far from the privately operated lower levels where the Shade Tree was docked, and from the library.

To an experienced hacker like Kaelee Adams, the Shade Tree’s Second Watch Signals Tech, the Navy may as well have left the door standing open.

“Here,” she said as she and Hector Gomp walked through the library. “Here’s a good terminal – a bit out of the way.” She sat down, extracted a Phoebe datachip from her pocket, plugged it into a port on the terminal, and started tapping the screen.

Behind her, Hector Gomp fidgeted in an excess of nervousness. Knock-down fights were well within Gomp’s expertise; sneaking into a Navy base to hack the Navy’s computer files was not. “How long is this going to take?”

“Couple minutes.” She tapped the screen again; graphics spun on the screen, random numbers flashing. “This is my own program; I’m fairly sure that the Royal Palace on Corinthia has at least as good security protocols as the Navy, and I got through them like a warm knife through butter. Relax.”

“I hope you’re right. What if they detect you?”

“I’m already in,” Adams replied. “We’re at a randomly selected terminal in the public library. This program doesn’t have any traceable ident tags. We’ll be back on the ship before the Navy could get anyone down here, even if they do pick me up.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“There,” Adams breathed, “Fleet base plans. Here’s Tarbos; here’s Halifax. Earth, and even the new base at New Wichita; they haven’t even started building that one yet. Should I download them all?”

“Sure,” Gomp agreed. “Never know when it might come in handy.”

More tapping. “All right,” Adams said. “Got them.” She reached up, pulled the Phoebe out of the terminal. “Let’s go.”

“After you.”

They meandered towards the exit casually, stopping to look at framed artworks and shelves of electronic book disks along the way. When they finally left the quiet confines of the Library, the colorful bustle of the station’s privately operated Commercial levels swallowed the pair.

***

Four levels above – The Confederate Star Ship Toronto

Captain Angela Ramirez was just getting used to her assignment as commander of the Navy’s newest escort carrier; she hadn’t expected to end up with a larger command just yet, and so regarded the message pad with some disbelief.

“Captain?” her Executive Officer asked.

“It’s true enough, orders from the Fleet Admiral’s office. Himself wants us to leave port immediately, along with the frigates Kidd and Charles Buford, and to head immediately out to some dead system out along the Grugell frontier.”

“Why?”

Ramirez handed the pad to her Exec, who scanned it quickly.

“A treaty violation? Is that our job?”

“Technically it is,” Ramirez said, “as long as it involves material crossing the frontier. Smuggling inside the Confederacy is a law enforcement issue. Out there, it’s our problem.”

“All right. When do you want to leave port?”

“This says ‘expedite.’ If I know Fleet Admiral Gauss, that means ‘haul ass.’ Wake up the crew, recall anyone who’s ashore, we leave the pier in one hour.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

***

The Shade Tree

Hector Gomp and Kaelee Adams found Captain Barrett waiting for them when they entered the ship’s docking umbilical, wide grins on their faces.

“Get what we needed?” Barrett demanded.

“All that and then some,” Gomp agreed.

“Good. Get to your stations; we’re leaving as soon as I can get clearance.”

“Fine with me, Captain,” Gomp grinned. “I always liked Halifax.”

 

 

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