Ten
January 2252

Mountain View

Senator Crider had only met the privateer captain Jean Barrett once, on board her ship in its berth in the Fleet spacedock, a year ago.  That day he’d spoken with her briefly on her Bridge, and had a five-minute tour of her cramped, claustrophobic ship.  Captain Barrett, clad in her habitual black fatigue pants and shirt, had threaded through corridors stacked with ration boxes and water cans to show the Senator the tiny engine room, the crew’s quarters, the central astrogation computer and the weapons bays.

It was a very different Captain Barrett that had just entered the Road House, the downtown restaurant where the Senator had arranged a dinner meeting away from the Senate Office building.

She had just walked into the dining room, dressed simply in a light gray cotton spaghetti-strap dress, cut just above knee-length in the current fashion, and gray heeled Roman-laced sandals.  The Senator caught himself gaping for a moment but controlled himself with the discipline of a practiced politician before waving at the privateer captain.  Jean Barrett spotted him and made her way to the table, smiling slightly.

“Good evening, Captain.”  He stood up as Barrett approached the table.

“Senator,” she replied.  She sat down, and Mike noticed her brisk economy of movement; no doubt a habit born of long months aboard her tiny ship.  “Thank you for offering me a dinner.  I’ve been eating CRAP so long; I don’t know if I remember what real food tastes like.”

Senator Crider almost dropped his napkin.  “Crap?”

Barrett laughed.  “Combat Ration Alpha-Packs.  Dehydrated shipboard rations, one pack feeds one person for one twenty-four-hour period.  Trouble with them is that they take a lot of water, and even with a good recycling system, that’s what limits our deployment – we can only carry enough water to stay out about three months without a planet fall, unless we can snag a comet and whack off a chunk of ice to distill for water.  And they’re bloody monotonous, too.”

“I’ll see if I can set up a meeting with the Navy Commissary department for you,” the Senator said.  “Maybe they’ve got something that will work better.”  It was difficult not to stare, even for a seasoned politician; Mike was having a hard time reconciling the woman before him with the hard, curt professional he’d met aboard the Shade Tree a year earlier.  Her russet curls bobbed in an engaging way when she laughed, and her green eyes sparkled.  He shook his head quickly, once.  “I read the report you hyperphoned from New Albion.  I imagine that the Grugell have their prisoners back by now, but you’ll be pleased to know we did learn a few things from them before the planet fell.”

“Oh?”  Their waiter appeared, hovered over the table.  Captain Barrett ordered Forestian pale ale.  The Senator followed suit.  “What exactly?”

“As we suspected, they’re planning to occupy our space, one planet at a time.  They knew the Orleans Task Group was going to be in the area, and they hit it deliberately – and within a week of driving the Navy clean out of the sector, they moved on New Albion.  They dropped troops right into the middle of Glengarry in the middle of the night, but the Governor had already had all but a few Security troops out of the city and into the woods and prairies north of the city.  There have been some skirmishes; I guess at least one group of guerrilla fighters is operating.  I grant you the reports we’re getting are pretty sketchy.”

“I imagine so.  We did a quick flash-by of their Occupation group as we left the system – they took a couple of shots at us, but I’ve got a pretty good Helmsman, and we were coming at them head-on, so the engagement speed was too high for either of us to do much.  I’ll tell you one thing, their Occupation ships are big damn things – their drive fields screw up the dark matter matrix for a couple thousand kilometers all around.  It was a rough ride there for a few seconds.”  The waiter appeared again, setting frosted glasses of ale before them.  She picked up her glass and sipped the cold ale.  “I thought about turning in behind them and taking a shot or two, but there were too many ships in the area – we were getting all sorts of alarms in our scanner tanks.  So, we just beat feet out of the system, aiming north out of the Ecliptic before turning for Tarbos.”

“You’ll get your chance, Captain,” the Senator began.  Barrett reached across the table and touched the back of his hand.

“Jean,” she said.

“Oh.  Of course.  And please, call me Mike.”  He was suddenly, unaccountably, flustered.

“All right, Mike,” she smiled, removing her hand.  “What do you have in mind?”

“Well, Jean,” Mike replied, grinning, “Let me start by asking you a question.  Do you think you can slip back into the New Albion system with a Navy drop boat attached to your sally port?”

“Probably.  I’ll want to talk to my Tactical people first.  I’d have to leave my clampon lander here at the dock to take on the drop boat, but I have a feeling I won’t need it this trip, will I?”

“No, I shouldn’t think so.  You’re going to drop a couple of people and some equipment in to help out those guerillas.  What you do after that is up to you, but indications are that there’s a fairly heavily armed fleet in the area.  If you can get back to Tarbos, I’m sure there will be more work for you and your ship.”

“Standard contract?” The privateer’s eyes glittered like polished jade at the mention of money.

“Standard contract.  Twenty percent bonus if you’re successful, and back here on Tarbos six weeks from today.”

“That’s fast,” Barrett mused, “But I think I can do that.”

They shook hands.

“Now, Senator,” Barrett smiled, “Tell me, is there a decent nightclub within a few minutes’ walk?  Better yet, let’s eat, and then you can show me.  I’ve been cramped up on my ship too long.”

Three days later – the Orleans

A slight shudder announced the jump to subspace.  Admiral Gauss stood in the flagship’s Combat Information Center, watching the scanning displays turn to unintelligible gibberish.  The Orleans and two other ships would rendezvous with the Mountain View, before proceeding on a plan of the Admiral’s making.  He was sure it would prove to be an interesting trip.

The Shade Tree

I should be ashamed of myself, Captain Barrett told herself with a touch of anger.  Flirting with a Senator like some addle-brained schoolgirl.  And that bloody dress!  What was I thinking?  I’m amazed he was still willing to give us the job after that performance.

She glanced at the Navigation scanner display.  The walls of the Tarbos spacedock still curved protectively around the tiny gray ship.   “Is that drop boat secured?”

“Yes, Captain,” someone replied.  She didn’t look up from her Bridge chair to see who had answered.  “Good.  Clear all moorings, navigation thrusters back one-third.  Get us out of here.  Navs, I want a course taking us high out of the ecliptic, loop over and bring us into New Albion from a direction the Grugell won’t suspect.  It’s a big damn sky, they can’t watch all of it.”

“You got it, Captain.”

“Are we clear of that dock yet?  Bring us about, one-eighty by fifteen.  Thrusters ahead full.  Go to full main drive as soon as we’re at the space beacon.  I’m going to go talk to our guests – call me when we jump to subspace.”  She kicked her feet back into her sandals and left the Bridge.

The Confederate Senate Office Building

Senator Crider had been trying all morning to keep himself from looking up at the sky.  Not that he expected to see anything; the Fleet spacedock was only visible at night, and then only with a good pair of binoculars or a cheap telescope.

But he knew that, up there, right now, Captain Jean Barrett was going into harm’s way again, at his request, and on the Confederacy’s payroll.

The feel of her small, tightly muscled body in his arms on the dance floor of the Tiger Den nightclub was burned into his mind.  And the image of her laughing green eyes haunted him. I hope she gets back safely.

To see more of Animal’s writing, visit his page at Crimson Dragon Publishing or Amazon.