Agent Mueller looked up from his paperwork, “Not interested. I wouldn’t even want to pick up the other two to get our man if it weren’t for the package deal.”
“One of them is a pilot. Her brother is certified engine crew.”
“Oh?” Mueller raised an eyebrow, “that could be useful, but this is a recruitment mission—”
“Both of them lost their parents to a GFN terrorist attack.”
The Agent picked up the file, he browsed both folders quickly. He began to smile slightly, especially as he read the note from the investigating officer. “Interesting... All right, you’ve convinced me. Tell the magistrate I want them.”
* * *
“The accused will step forward.”
Mel stepped forward into the courtroom. The only occupants were a pair of guards and a man in Guard Fleet uniform. “Sir, I want to—”
“You will be silent or you will be held in contempt of this tribunal,” the uniformed man cut her off. “The tribunal is now in session.”
There was a faint hum as recording equipment turned on.
“Certified Pilot and Ship’s Owner Melanie Armstrong of the Century System is charged with Criminal Negligence, Reckless Endangerment, and Willful Disobedience of Traffic Control Commands.” The tribunal officer sounded bored. “How do you plead?”
“Uh, sir, that is—”
“Accused pleads guilty to all charges. Evidence is amended to tribunal recordings.”
“Hey, I didn’t say—”
“The tribunal finds the accused guilty of above crimes and also for contempt of the tribunal. Sentence for conviction is fifteen years hard labor. Convicted is remanded to Guard Custody for duration of the sentence.”
The officer flipped a switch. The hum cut off.
“Hey, wait, you can’t do this!” Mel shouted. “That wasn’t even a trial! I demand to see a lawyer—”
One of the guards grabbed her by her collar and dragged her out.
Time: 1100 Zulu, 11 June 291 G.D.
Location: Female Block, Justicar Prisoner Transport
The cold, dark ship’s sole purpose and design came from the need to transport the maximum number of prisoners with minimal difficulties. Cells were just that, cells of solid steel that ran down the length of the ship, each door secured by a digital lock whose combination changed every time the guards opened it.
They separated Mel from her brother and put her in the female block. There were only three other women in the block. Apparently the Guard didn’t get many prisoners on this run.
She didn’t talk to them. They didn’t talk to her. The silence was almost companionable. Her food arrived via a tray slid under her door, twice a day, delivered by a female guard who never spoke.
On the third day, her door opened.
There were two female guards. One of them gestured. “Come on out.”
They took her out of the cells, past the security checkpoint and into a clean, sterile room. “Shower’s there,” one gestured to a door.
“Clothing’s there.” She gestured to a neatly folded pile of clothing on a table.
“When you’re clean and dressed go through that door.” She pointed at a second door.
Then they left.
It was the first moment of privacy Mel had had in days. She wanted to cry. Instead, she went to the shower. It was an experience she wanted to savor, but she also didn’t want to be dragged out of it. She suspected that or worse would happen if she lingered too long.
She hurried and then got dressed quickly. It was normal, comfortable civilian clothing; it even fit her fairly well, though it was bland and unremarkable. It felt alien after the prison smock she’d worn for what seemed forever. A part of her mind whispered that it had only been a week. She didn’t want to imagine the longer period of imprisonment ahead of her.
The second door opened into another sterile room.
A long mirror covered one wall. A man sat behind a table with a slim folder on it.
“Have a seat,” he said without rising.
Mel sat. She knew this was some kind of game, knew she was being manipulated. It should have made her angry, but somehow it only made her feel more helpless. Over his shoulder she saw her reflection. Her face looked pale, blonde hair lank, eyes shadowed.
The man opened up his folder. “Melanie Armstrong, born 266 to Anne Marie and Hans Armstrong on the planet Century, of the same system.”
His voice was empty and cold, “Your aunt and uncle were archeologists on Century, they and their youngest child were killed in a pirate attack on Century, leaving only your cousin Jiden Armstrong alive. Your grandmother, Admiral Victoria Armstrong of Century's Planetary Militia is something of a local war hero. You got your pilot’s license at fifteen, qualified for entry into the Harlequin Sector Fleet Academy at seventeen, rather than joining Century's Military Academy. You were in the top five percent of your class for three years. Then your parents died in a Guard Free Now terrorist attack two months before graduation. You resigned and took guardianship of your younger brother. In the six years since, you managed the Kip Thorne as captain and owner until a week ago when it broke up above Dakota.”
“I suppose you even know my calculus test grades from my plebe year,” Mel joked weakly, “So what is this about?”
The man smiled thinly, “You got excellent marks, your teacher put in a recommendation that you be sent to further schooling in higher level mathematics.” The man stood “Do you know what your sentence is?”
“Penal colony I’d guess.” Mel answered.
“Fifteen years on Thornhell.” He stood up and looked down at her. He wasn't tall, probably ten centimeters or more shorter than Mel, but he seemed to loom over her.
Mel gulped, “I heard there was a war on there.” What she'd heard of the planet left her feeling faintly sick.
The man shook his head, “Not anymore. Not that it matters much. You’d be working in the mines. Fifteen years is ten years longer than the survival rate on that planet.”
“It’s not fair!” Mel snapped. “I did the best I could, I didn’t even get a fair—”
His voice cut across hers like a knife, “No, it’s not fair. The universe isn’t fair.” He smiled a cold, reptilian smile. “Think on this though. How fair would it be if your freighter had landed on someone, rather than smashing into some wilderness on a backwater planet?”
He smiled wider as she shook her head stubbornly. “No, it didn’t. But your next stop was Salvation. Think for a moment what would have happened if your thrusters went out there. Something similar happened on Expo just last year. Over fifteen hundred dead when one battered freighter crashed into a residential block in the middle of the night. No warning; definitely not fair to them, eh?”
Mel looked down at her hands. “If we’d made that run, we could have paid for the repairs we needed.”
“No, if you’d made the run, you would have needed to make several more to pay for the repairs you needed. We reviewed your logs and analyzed your cargo versus your maintenance bill. Even with some kind of loan, you weren't going to pay for it all.” The man answered.
Mel looked up, anger in her face. “What’s this about? I’m going to die on some crappy, worthless world, I failed my brother and I failed myself. Is that what you want to hear?”
She gestured at the mirrored wall, “Is that what they want to see?”
The cold man smiled. “What do you know about the Second Sweep?”
Mel’s jaw dropped at the complete change in subject. She shook her head while she tried to get her bearing. Finally, she answered, “Started a hundred years ago. Bigger war than the War of Persecution. We almost lost.”
“We very nearly were exterminated.” The cold man spoke softly. His eyes seemed distant and there was a tone of reverence to his voice. “The Culmor were at the front gate. Fifty million soldiers and sailors died. Over three billion civilians wiped out. The entire Sepaso Sector razed; half of Harlequin sector exterminated.”
He caught Mel’s gaze with his own cold and calculating eyes.
“That certainly wasn’t fair to them. That didn’t stop it from happening. You wrote a paper about the automatons.” He paused. “Tell me about them.”
Mel stared at him for a long while, “Uh, the Preserve and Triad ran low on trained personnel. They made fully automated vessels for the fighting.” She frowned.
“Most had small crews to run them, some were controlled entirely by computers: Artificial Intelligence, supposedly limited by programming to think only within tactical orientations. They weren’t supposed to think outside of the mission parameters.”
The unknown man picked up a copy of her paper, she could follow along as he read the instructor's comments scrawled on the top, “A decent paper, excellent research but you didn't touch very much on the reasons the ships were discontinued.”
Mel shrugged. It seemed a strange topic of conversation, but… “They behaved erratically in combat. Mission parameters were vague in many cases. They were amazingly effective as rear-area raiders, or serving as suicide attackers against Culmor bases. While in formation with human ships, though, they sometimes targeted friend and foe, went berserk. Some took damage and went haywire.”
She was slightly surprised at all she remembered after several years. Then again, it had been an interesting topic in history. The subject had been all the more intriguing for the fact that most people didn’t like to talk about it.
“And then the war turned, we didn’t need them any more. So the ships were discontinued, most of them were scrapped.”
Mel nodded impatiently, “Right, they weren’t designed to carry crews, the weapons, plants and engines had little shielding, the ships didn’t have life support. It was easier and cheaper to scrap them than to refit them for human use.”
“Don’t worry, this all has a purpose.” The cold man smiled, took his seat. “That history is something of a fascination of mine; also, it’s part of my job.”
“Which would be?” Mel asked.
The man removed a wallet from within his suit, “Guard Intelligence.”
Mel pushed back from the table, as if he’d transformed into a venomous snake.
He grinned broadly, “No need to fear, I’m not hunting you or even here to harm you. As bad as it may sound, I’m actually here to help you.”
Despite his words, he clearly enjoyed the effect he'd had on her, Mel saw. The light to his eyes and the smirk on his face marked him as someone who cultivated the persona.
Mel knew that she should stay quiet and shouldn't provoke him. Even so, she couldn't help but snort in derision, “Right. As in ‘I’m from the government, I’m here to help you.’”
The spook's smirk vanished and his eyes narrowed in irritation. “Some agents believe that coercion is sufficient to gain service from those they need. I do not believe so. Believe me, I will lie to you, I will use you, but I understand that I must give you some incentive if I want you to assist me.”
He stared at her in silence for a long moment, almost as if to suggest that he were reconsidering whether he were going to offer Mel anything at all.
Good job, Mel thought to herself, piss off the guy who holds your life in his hands.
Even so, she couldn't help a spurt of irritation with the man. He wanted her to feel this way, wanted her to second-guess herself. He was building towards something and he wanted her off balance and uncertain. She fell back on the fire that had gotten her through the Academy and she felt her back straighten, even as she clenched her teeth on the spike of anger at this continued manipulation.
“What do you know about the Wolf-class battlecruisers?” He demanded.
Back to the games, Mel thought with a sigh. She took a moment to think. Part of the Academy had dealt with ship identification, with a basic overview of every Human military ship made in the past three hundred years.
“The class was designed for heavy combat. Fully automated, some self-repair capabilities. Only ten or twelve of them even begun in construction, I don’t think any of them ever saw combat.”
It was the sum of all her knowledge. She’d been far more fascinated by the smaller ships while at the Academy. I wanted to be a fighter pilot, she remembered. That part of her seemed very distant, in many ways as dead as her parents.
“Three Wolves commissioned, two of them went on missions, the third went to the breakers within a month of completion,” the agent stated flatly, all emotion gone from his voice.
“The Romulus went against a Culmor dreadnought squadron at Baker in order to delay its attack on Harlequin Station. That mission cut the war short by an appreciable margin. It destroyed three of the squadron’s four dreadnoughts, and the fourth was destroyed in a follow-up run.”
Mel blinked. A battlecruiser destroyed three dreadnoughts?
“The other ship, the Fenris, departed on a separate mission three weeks later, in March of 193. It first attacked a troop transport convoy, sighted at Bell, then a captured deep-space station serving the enemy as a raider base. Its final target was to be the center of the Culmor advance in this sector, Vagyr.”
Mel frowned, “Wasn’t Vagyr captured intact nearly a year later?”
“It was, by ‘auxiliaries’ that were, and are, little more than pirates,” the agent replied.
“The Fenris never arrived at Vagyr. It intercepted and destroyed the convoy, scouts confirmed the destruction the raider base, and that was it. Guard Fleet presumed it destroyed in the fight at the raider station. Significant debris clouds suggested a significantly larger raider force at the station than intelligence had suggested.” He shrugged. “Logic, therefore, suggested the autonomous ship was destroyed in combat.”
“I assume we’re having this conversation because it wasn’t?” Mel snapped, her patience at a ragged end. The history lesson grated, particularly given the fact that her future seemed tied to this random bit of history.
“Indeed.” The agent smiled. “In fact, you are quite right.”
“Two weeks ago, a merchant ship suffered a minor warp drive failure. Their FTL warp drive kicked off in what was supposed to be an empty, barren system. While undergoing their repairs, they spotted activity in the inner system. They also detected military transmissions in the system. Like any merchant with something to hide, they quietly got their ship repaired and left. Someone aboard talked and one of my colleagues collected their sensor data as a precaution.”
“And it was this missing ship?” Mel asked.
“That took confirmation by a cruiser squadron we sent to investigate. They were extremely fortunate: the Fenris queried them for identification and accepted their modern codes.”
“So the ship was damaged and hid in some backwater system. What’s the problem?” Mel asked. Some part of her whispered that she would be better off trying a more helpful tone... but everything about this Guard Intelligence agent made her back go up.
The agent closed his eyes, sighed slightly. “I’ve had to tell this story twenty-seven times. Do let me finish at my own pace.” He opened his eyes and peered at her somewhat inquisitively, “I don’t think you want to make me angry.”
His gaze reminded her of a snake that had just eaten, regarding a mouse it might make room for. Mel shivered.
“Guard Fleet dispatched a courier ship with the proper clearance codes and query data to order the ship to power down. Upon receiving the query codes, the vessel replied that repairs were 98% completed, and that the mission would continue. Upon receiving the codes to power down, the ship did something it shouldn’t have. It ignored the codes and replied that the mission would be completed. Then it engaged it's strategic warp drive.”
“And you have no idea where it went.” Mel sat back.
“On the contrary. We know exactly where it is going.”
Time: 1500 Zulu, 11 June 291 G.D.
Location: Solitary Confinement, Justicar Prisoner Transport
Agent Mueller stepped up near the bars and dropped a chair
outside. He settled into it backwards, arms crossed over the back, “Leon, you look like shit.”
The prisoner didn’t look up from where he sat, huddled in the shadows at the rear of the cell.
“Trying to ignore me? You got pretty good at ignoring many things, Leon, but you never could ignore me.” Mueller entwined his fingers and rested his chin on them.
“What do you want?” The voice was only a whisper.
“My friend, my mentor, what do you think I want? I want you, the famous agent, I want you working for us again.” Mueller let the sincerity drip through his voice. It was easy enough, after all, because it was the truth. They needed him, and men like him, especially now.
“That will never happen,” Leon hissed back.
“Come now, never is an awful long time.” Mueller replied. “I know you’ve still got family back on New Paris. For that matter, I’m sure I can find someone a little closer to… focus your mind.”
He hated to use threats, not because they weren't effective but because it seemed so dirty. Why do people continue to make me threaten them, he thought, just to do what needs to be done?
“What do you want?” The whisper was faint, difficult to hear. It was enough.
“I need you on this one. It’s bad, I won’t lie. Has the potential to be extremely bad. Entire planet annihilated, not a good thing to have happen on my watch, you understand.” Mueller shrugged, as if to say it would be an unavoidable tragedy.
“I get the point, what do you want me to do?”
“Don’t cause problems. I’ve talked your friends into helping us. Go along with it. They’ll come through this fine; you’ll come through this fine. Maybe I can even get you some treatment—“
“No. I have my own ways for dealing with my demons.”
The agent shrugged, “Have it your way. It’s a shame you left. Yours are hard boots to fill.”
“What, the killing, destroying and murdering boots, or the scheming, plotting, manipulating boots?” The prisoner scoffed. “I’m sure you’re doing just fine.”
Secrets in the Stars (Family Law) Page 43
