Legends are born. Legends die. Life goes on. Today, life goes on for Lieutenant Stevers.
But tomorrow is another day, and today there was no time to rejoice. We still had a mission to do.
“Stevers, deploy the data relay. The rest of you, stand by to launch recorder torpedoes.”
At 15,000 kilometers from the Kafaran carrier, the three of us fired the intelligence-gathering devices.
Studded with scanners, recorders, cameras, and other paraphernalia, the torpedoes would send that information back to the data relay every few seconds until they ran out of power or were destroyed. And the relay did its job, sending the information back to our fighters’ computers until we were well on our way back to our own carrier and out of range. That data would be pored over by the intelligence officers on the ship, and gone over with the “old man.” Plans would be made. More missions would be launched. People or aliens would invariably die. The Galactic War would go on.
And through it all, the Milky Way Galaxy—immune to the scuffling going on in a small backwater corner—would continue to spin as it had for millennia, none the worse for wear.
* * * * *
Usually after an engagement such as the one we’d just been on, the pilots are hotter than usual, and landings become, in proportion, insignificant child's play. It is then that the pilots are at their best in bringing them in, and beautifully, even with half the fighter shot away.
Of course, CARL (Computer Assisted Recovery and Landing system) always had a hand in helping out.
Our landing pads touched, and now we were aboard. Now we would learn the best and the worst in our own ready room.
In space there can be no definite letdown after a job has been done. A letdown can be pretended, but this is about all. A space carrier is such a demanding vessel that she insists on attention at all times, and from all hands.
Besides, not only would the enemy be as anxious as ever to get us, but by this time he should also have a fairly precise account of our location. We continued moving in on deceitful courses, naturally, but enemy warships and the rest of it could as easily be moving from somewhere to head us off. And the nearest jump gates were too distant to even think about.
More than once, while starting the return, we had been summoned to our battle stations by the announcement that an enemy fighter had been sighted in our vicinity. Another time, four of our fighters closed in on a Gilbert which had been trying to trail us. The first interceptor to reach the intelligence-gathering enemy craft, a nimble needle-like thing, brought it down so quickly that the three other fighters resented the quickness a little. They’d all wanted to get in their own shots, too.
After a further two days and two nights of monitoring, trailing, retreating, and attacking, one could have told that the task force was now on its way back to our home base if through no other reason than that the scuttlebutt was starting all over again.
The scuttlebutt had to do with where we were going to attack next after we refueled and replenished our carrier.
We were staying in Loitis Sector to mop up.
We were leaving Loitis Sector for good, as there were bigger fish in the nearby Skiri Sector.
We were heading to Trinity Quadrant next, ready to blast hell out of the Kafaran refueling depot in Toter Sector.
There was no end to the scuttlebutt. There never was.
Still, no matter where we would go, we’d be there to fight. That’s what we do, and we do it well.
So there can be no letdown as such, even during the return to replenish. Watches remain the same strict watches, and the G.Q.s remain the same G.Q.s. Space patrols continue their patrolling. And, from the general look of things, we readily might be moving in for an engagement instead of having just finished one.
Maybe for the last time.
The difference was ours to make, and make it we would. We would answer the call as we’d done a hundred times, just as hundreds of other Sector Command crews had done.
In the decades to come, the countless days we had behind would be forgotten, replaced by brief flashes of the few exciting, harrowing, or just plain odd incidents that irrevocably burned themselves forever into our consciousness.
No matter what, in those future times just as now, we’d be proud of this ship and to have served on her.
The End
The Crown Of Gnar (2352)
Victor Trudeau sat quietly in the Saffron Lounge of the Obsidian Plaza Resort, listening to the alien, yet oddly soothing strains of the native orchestra while sipping a whiskey from his native planet. He knew perfectly well that he had no business displaying himself in public on the planet Soaria, as there were influential Soarians who held no love for a certain human named Victor Trudeau.
It didn't particularly bother Trudeau. Life, after all, was danger and danger was life. And Victor Trudeau was known on half a hundred planets as a man who could take care of himself. Of course, those were the worlds that knew him by that name . . . and he had so many others.
Even so, he wouldn't have bothered to come if it had not been for the fact that Falnua Burfix was a pompous braggart.
Burfix had already suffered once at the hands of Trudeau. Some years before, a narcotics gang had been smashed open high, wide, and handsome on Daliv VII. Three men had died from an overdose of their own concoction of a drug they called Enigma, and half a million Unified credits of illicit gain had vanished into nowhere along with the ringleader. The Dalivian magistrate didn't know who had tipped them off about the gang, and they didn't know who had financed the ring.
But somehow Burfix had learned that Victor Trudeau was the former, and Trudeau was one of only a few who knew that Falnua Burfix was the latter, the others having long since been silenced in one way or another. Burfix had even mustered the gall to send hitmen in search of Trudeau on a half-dozen worlds throughout Beta Sector, which of course led to a string of dead hitmen turning up on those same worlds.
A week before, Trudeau had been relaxing happily on a beach on Wourus IV, twelve light-years from Soaria, reading a newsfeed. He’d become interested in an article which told of the sentencing of a certain lady to seven years in Wourus Prison, when his attention was attracted by another headline.
FALNUA BURFIX PURCHASES RARE GNAR CROWN. Soaria (SNA)—It was announced today that Falnua Burfix, wealthy human expat turned Soarian financier, has purchased the fabulous Crown of Gnar, a mysterious heirloom whose origins have vanished into antiquity. The crown, made of matched Altadium diamonds, is estimated to be worth more than a million solar credits, although the price paid by the honorable Falnua Burfix is not known.
Such an interesting bit had seemed worthy of further investigation, so Trudeau had immediately booked passage on the first Red Knight galactic liner to Soaria.
And thus it was that an immaculately dressed, broad-shouldered, handsome young man sat quietly in the Saffron Lounge of Soaria's most opulent resort, surveying his surroundings with steady green eyes and wondering how he was going to get his hands on the Crown of Gnar.
The local police couldn't or wouldn’t touch the honorable Falnua Burfix, but Victor Trudeau would.
"Hello, Trudeau," slithered a cold voice at his elbow.
Trudeau turned and looked up into the contemptuously smiling face of Ebel Mrabet, the heavyset, scale-faced Temkorian who worked with Burfix as his right-hand man.
"Well, well," Victor said, smiling confidently back at the obscenely gruesome alien, "if it isn't Little Bo Peep. How is the illicit drug business these days? And how is the kingpin himself?"
Mrabet's smile—if one could describe such an ugly expression as one—soured. "You're very funny, hu-man. But we don't like hu-mans here."
“Temkorians aren’t known for their love of hu-mans at all,” Victor said with smirk, slithering his words as a Temkorian would. The joke was lost on the alien looming over him. "Do sit down, Ebel, and tell me all about it. The last I heard—which was two hours ago—the government of Soaria was perfectly happy to
have me here. In fact, they were good enough to stamp my passport to prove it." As proof of his words, Victor held up the passport card. “Not a very flattering picture though, I’m afraid,” he said as he turned it over in his hand.
Mrabet pulled out a chair and sat down, keeping his claw-tipped hands beneath the table. "What are you doing here, Trudeau?"
"I couldn't help it," Trudeau said blandly as he placed the interstellar passport back into his pocket. "I was drawn back by the memory of the natural beauties of the planet. Did you know, Ebel, that Soaria boasts of some of the most fantastic clothing-optional beaches in the sector . . . not that you’d be interested, of course . . . or that others would be interested in what you’d bring to the table. Be that as it may, the very thought of reacquainting myself with that chubby, sagging face of old Burfix, decorated with the bulbous nose that is renowned throughout the galaxy, was simply too good to pass up. So here I am."
Mrabet's dark face grew even darker. "I know you, Trudeau. And I know why you're here. Tomorrow is the date for the coronation of His Serenity, the Culor of Soaria."
“Is it?” Victor asked in mock surprise.
The Temkorian narrowed his yellow eyes.
"Yes, I’ve heard that it was," Trudeau admitted. "And I wouldn't miss it for all the credits in the sector. A celebration like that is worth traveling parsecs to see, you know."
Mrabet leaned across the table. "Burfix is considered a noble of the realm here," he said slowly. "He'll be at the coronation. You know as well as anyone he's going to wear the Crown of Gnar, and you—" Suddenly, he leaned forward a little farther, his right claw stabbing out toward Trudeau's leg beneath the table.
But Victor Trudeau was ready for him. Mrabet's hand was a full eight centimeters from Trudeau's thigh when a set of fingers grasped the scaly wrist in a viselike hold. Steely fingers bit in, pressing nerves against bone. With a hiss, Mrabet opened his hand. A small, metallic cylinder capped in a purple vial dropped out.
Trudeau caught it with his free hand and smiled, then brought the device closer to his eyes. "That's rude, Ebel,” he said with a disappointed look as he shook the vial. “It isn't polite to try to give your host an injection when he doesn't want it."
Without further warning, Victor slapped the cylinder against the arm he still held, and squeezed the little metal tube. There was a faint pop, and Trudeau released the arm and handed back the cylinder to Mrabet. The sickly green color of the Temkorian’s scales blanched.
"I imagine that was twelve-hour poison," Trudeau said kindly. "If you hurry, Burfix will give you the antidote . . . if he’s still in a good mood after you tell him what’s happened here. I suspect it’ll be quite painful, but then again—" He shrugged casually, then leaned back in his chair.
Mrabet scowled as he rubbed at the spot of the injection.
And by the way, old chum," Victor continued, "let me give you some advice. The next time you try to get near a victim with one of those things, don't do it by talking to him about things he already knows. It doesn't distract him enough."
Mrabet stood up, his clawed fists clenched. "You haven’t seen the last of me, Trudeau." He then turned and stalked off through the crowd.
“Good help is so terribly hard to come by.” Trudeau shook his head in disappointment as the Temkorian disappeared through the revolving doors, and then he spotted a waitress passing closely by. Catching one of her four eyes with a nod and a smile, he ordered a drink and resumed his relaxation.
Trudeau, pleased with himself, smiled and casually finished his drink. Mrabet was going to be uncomfortable for a while. Twelve-hour poison was a complex protein substance that could be varied in several thousand different ways, and only an antidote made from the right variation would work for each poison. If the antidote wasn't given, the victim died within those twelve hours. And even if the antidote was given, getting over poison wasn't any fun at all.
Reflecting happily on the plight of Ebel Mrabet, Victor Trudeau paid his bill, tipped the waitress liberally, and strolled out of the Saffron Lounge and into the lobby of the Obsidian Plaza Resort. The coronation would begin early tomorrow, and he didn't want to miss the beginning of it. The culor's coronation was to be the affair of all of Soaria.
* * * * *
After a leisurely stroll through the capital city, Trudeau picked up a few supplies, then purchased a copy of the latest newsfeeds from a local vendor before returning to the Obsidian Plaza Resort.
He headed for the lift tube, which whisked him up to his room on the ninetieth floor. He inserted his light key in the lock and pressed the button on the tip. The electronic lock opened, and the door slid into the wall. Before entering, Trudeau took a look at the computer on his wrist. With one of the most powerful financiers on Soaria out after his blood, there was no way of knowing what might happen, and therefore no reason to take chances. There was no sign of anything having entered the room since he had left it. Only then did he go inside.
There were some worlds where Victor Trudeau would no more have stayed in a public hotel than he would have jumped into a fusion incinerator, especially if his opponent was a man as influential as Burfix appeared to be. But Soaria was a civilized and reasonably well-policed planet; Sector Command patrols were known to operate near the still-independent world, the local police were honest, and the courts were just. Even Burfix couldn't do anything openly.
Trudeau locked his door, sang to himself in a pleasant baritone while he bathed, put on his pajamas, and lay down on his bed to read the newsfeed.
It was mostly full of coronation news. Noble So-and-So would wear such and such, the Archbishop would do thus and so. There was another item about Burfix: his daughter was ill and would be unable to attend. Bloody shame, thought Trudeau. Too bad Burfix isn't sick—or dying.
There was further mention of the Crown of Gnar; its value was second only to the Crown Jewels of the culor himself. The precautions being taken were fantastic: at a quick guess, about half the crowd would be plainclothed security. Even the officers of a newly arrived Sector Command warship would be paying their respects. Trudeau had no qualms with the Unified Collaboration of Systems or their military people, but neither did he wish to invite one.
The door announcer chimed. Trudeau sat up and punched a button on the console on the nightstand. The screen showed the face of a woman standing at his door. Trudeau smiled in appreciation. She had dark brown hair, blue eyes, and a smooth, tanned complexion. It was a beautiful face, and it showed promise of having a body to match.
"Who, may I ask, is calling on a gentleman at this ungodly hour, and thus compromising her reputation and fair name?"
The girl smiled, showing even, white teeth. Her eyes sparkled, flickers of little cobalt flames. "I see I've found the right room," she said. "That voice couldn't belong to anyone but Victor Trudeau." Then she lowered her voice and said softly, "Please let me in. I'm Codora Glass."
Trudeau felt a tingle of electricity flow over his skin; there was a promise of danger and excitement in the air. Codora Glass was known throughout Beta Sector as the cleverest jewel thief the human race had ever spawned. Trudeau had never met her, but he’d definitely heard of her.
He touched the admission stud, and the door slid silently aside. There was no doubt about it—her body matched her face.
"Do come in, Miss Glass," he said.
She stepped inside, and Trudeau touched the closing button. The door slid shut behind her.
She stood there for a moment looking at him, and Trudeau took the opportunity to study the girl more closely. Her outfit was casual, but formfitting and dark.
At last, she said, "So you're Victor Trudeau. You're even better looking than I'd heard you were. Congratulations."
"I have a good press agent," Trudeau said modestly. "What's on your mind?" He waved his hand at a nearby chair. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
"The same thing that's on yours, I suspect," she said. "And yes, I’d love one. It’s been a long trip.”<
br />
Trudeau slid himself from the bed, selected a bottle from the menu and dialed. The robot bellhop whirred, a chute opened in the wall, and a bottle slid out. “And where is it you’ve come from?” he asked as he poured and then handed the tumbler to the girl.
“Minos.”
“A long way from here.”
“It was worth the trip,” she replied, smiled mischievously, then sipped her wine.
“Well, this is your party, Miss Glass. What do you have in mind?"
The woman took another sip of her drink before she answered. Then she looked up at Trudeau with her deep blue eyes. "Two things. One: I have no intention or desire to compete with Victor Trudeau for the Crown of Gnar. Both of us might end up in prison with nothing for our pains.”
Trudeau had to brace himself so as not to wince when she pronounced Gnar as “Guh-narr.” Instead, he bowed his head. “Very thoughtful. However, Miss Glass, the ‘G’ in Gnar is mostly silent,” he chided. Her only response to the correction was to narrow her eyes before continuing.
"Two: I have a foolproof method for getting the crown, but none for getting it off the planet. I’ll wager you probably have a way."
Trudeau nodded. "I dare say I could swing it. But how is it that you don't have an avenue of disposal planned?"
She looked bleak for a moment. "The man who came with me to help me decided to back out at the last minute. He didn't know what the job was, and I wouldn't tell him because I didn't trust him."
"Wise. And you have faith me?"
Her eyes were trustful. "I've heard a lot about you, Trudeau, and I happen to know you never double-cross anyone unless they do it to you first."
Beta Sector- Anthology Page 2
