McKnight's Mission

by Caleb Wachter

  The tension in the room was thick enough that Lu Bu suspected even a vibro-knife would have difficulty cutting it—if she believed in employing such silly metaphors, that is. But she found she was every bit as excited as the tech experts seemed to be as the progress bar reach eighty percent…and then it reached ninety percent…and then it hit 100%.

  “Eureka!” the three experts declared in perfect harmony, thrusting their hands upward and causing Lu Bu to jump in alarm at their unexpected outburst.

  They quickly began speaking to each other so quickly that Lu Bu could only pick out every third or fourth word, but it was clear that they had accomplished the first task for which they had been recruited.

  She allowed them to continue in their jubilant congratulations as she moved into the companionway with Traian.

  “I’ll be the Demon’s Imp,” Traian swore with overt appreciation, “they actually did it?”

  “It seems so,” Lu Bu nodded before switching subjects, “did you make contact with Benedict?”

  “Not exactly,” he said grimly, and Lu Bu could smell the alcohol on his breath. It was far from overpowering, but her superior sense of smell easily made it out and she suspected that she had allowed him to spiral too far into self-indulgence regarding the loss of Private Funar.

  In truth, she had empathized with him since she had also lost someone important. In a way, she had hoped that by showing lenience with him she might somehow ease his own portion of suffering. But it seemed she had been too lenient and that her desire to help a fellow Lancer through a painful period might have jeopardized the mission.

  “But I did meet with one of the sellers Benedict was working with,” he added, much to her surprise. “I can work up a profile on him and run it through the various databases if we actually do have access to Kongming’s network now. Luckily, that’s even better than making contact with Benedict since he never actually leaves Capital.”

  “Do you have date for the next shipment?” she pressed hopefully.

  But Traian shook his head sourly, “He broke my nose before we could get that far.”

  Lu Bu was understandably disappointed, but she was also glad that she would actually have something of value to present to Lieutenant Commander McKnight when she arrived. “We have purchased extra equipment for the team,” she jerked her thumb toward the still-exuberant trio of technicians, “but it must be collected at transfer station.” She reached into the room briefly and retrieved a data slate with the purchase details and handed it to him, “Can you do it?”

  Traian nodded and accepted the slate, “No problem, ma’am.”

  “Run your profile in the network,” she instructed, lowering her voice and adding, “and no more drinking. Understood?”

  Traian’s expression darkened with shame and he nodded, “Won’t happen again, ma’am.”

  “Then we will speak no more of it,” she assured him, eliciting a slight warming of his expression. She gestured for him to enter the room and get to work on the profile, after which she went to her bunk and collapsed for some much-needed rest.

  Chapter XVIII: The Belly of the Beast

  “How can you trust him?” Tremblay asked in patent disbelief. “What little we know about him says that he’s one of the foremost black marketeers in the entire Spine.”

  “Everyone has to do things they wish they didn’t,” Bethany retorted dismissively as she applied the last of several perfumes to her wrists. “We shouldn’t hold his circumstances against him just because they’ve required him to take questionable actions in the past.”

  “Questionable?!” Tremblay blurted. “If even half of what Caprian Naval Intelligence suspected him of doing is true, he’s easily the most wanted criminal for a thousand light years!”

  “He’s not the boogeyman,” Bethany said in that scolding, aristocratic tone that Tremblay had found a new level of hatred for after being stuck with her for the better part of a year. “Besides, I understand that his offer to you was more than generous,” she added airily, “given your relatively limited options, of course.”

  Tremblay felt his ears begin to burn at her not-so-subtle jab directed toward her station—which she had made all too clear during their time together was that of a modestly-skilled peon compared to her apparently vastly superior aristocratic societal perch.

  “We’re not talking about me,” he said angrily, “we’re talking about you.”

  “Are we?” she asked with faux innocence as she fidgeted with her hair while looking down at the low-cut neckline of her outrageously expensive gown. Apparently Lynch owned several such garments and had given them all to Bethany as some kind of goodwill gesture. After rearranging her bosom for obvious visual effect, she appeared satisfied and began applying makeup to her eyes.

  “What about your supposedly ‘refined tastes’?” he asked, looking around the sparsely-appointed quarters of the yacht, which they had shared since leaving the station with the secretive arms dealer several weeks earlier. “How can they possibly be satisfied here?”

  “It takes taste to appreciate the taste of others,” she countered haughtily, “and our host possesses more of it in his little finger than you’ll ever lay claim to.”

  “You’re a piece of work, you know that?” he asked in bewilderment.

  “Don’t act like you’re not tempted,” she said, clearly ignoring his last barb. “What he’s offering you is a chance to matter again, Raphael Tremblay. You should know,” she added as she looked into the lone mirror within their quarters while continually fussing with her hair, “that second chances don’t come along all that often for people like you.”

  “People like me?!” he scoffed.

  “Oh, don’t get so defensive,” she sighed irritably. “Military types generally don’t get the opportunity to escape my cousin’s brand of ‘justice,’ and intelligence operatives are as likely to be…what is it you say, ‘rubbed out’ for professional failures as they are to be stuck on a desk for the rest of their careers.”

  The worst part of what she said was that Tremblay knew it was mostly true. Lynch’s offer had essentially been to put Tremblay in charge of a vast network of intelligence assets which stretched from one end of what had previously been the Confederated Empire to the other—and possibly even beyond.

  And the financial compensation offered had been absurdly generous. He would earn, in a single year of Lynch’s employ, ten times what he would have earned in a twenty year career working Naval Intelligence on an aggressive and successful career path. And at the end of that twenty year career he would have almost certainly had access to even fewer assets, resources, and influence than he would have on the first day working for Lynch.

  “I won’t betray my world…no matter how much he offers,” Tremblay said stiffly.

  “Oh, will you please get over yourself?” Bethany sneered. “Nobody’s asking you to betray Capria.”

  “Why do you care if I take the deal or not?” Tremblay demanded. The truth was that if Bethany had not been involved, he probably would have already accepted the proposal—at least on an interim basis. Despite Tremblay’s protestations to the contrary, Lynch had been explicitly clear that none of his operations would have any impact, either direct or indirect, on Capria or its neighbors. The problem was that Tremblay saw little possibility that such an assurance could be true since his own primary tactical value was as a Caprian Intelligence Officer.

  Bethany shrugged indifferently, but their time together had taught him to read her body language—which told Tremblay she was being less than honest when she said, “I guess I feel responsible for you…kind of like how a person feels responsible for a lost, helpless puppy left to wander the streets and fend for itself in a world it doesn’t understand. Obviously it’s not my fault that you find yourself in your current situation,” she continued blithely, ignoring his burning gaze at that particular insistence, “but I honestly think it is part of my duty to look after those who might not be able to look after themselves.�
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  “Oh, that’s rich,” Tremblay snorted. “I can’t take care of myself? Try looking in a mirror sometime, Your Majesty.”

  “I would never dream of usurping my King’s privilege,” she said as she finished working on her eyelashes with the portable makeup kit and began to stow the various cosmetic instruments she had been using, “’Highness’ will do fine, thank you.”

  Tremblay growled in frustration, but before he could respond the chime beside their door sounded.

  Bethany turned to face the door and called, “Enter.”

  The door swished open, and Lynch stepped through. He was wearing his customary, form-fitting body glove which showed an outrageously impressive physique which Tremblay had rarely even seen among the Tracto-ans.

  “I hope I ain’t disturbing?” Lynch said as his eyes flicked first to Tremblay, then to Bethany where they lingered with obvious approval. “You look particularly fetching, if I do say so myself.”

  Bethany curtsied strangely, “Your hospitality brings out the best in me.”

  His eyes moved up and down her form before catching for a pair of seconds on her half-exposed bosom. “I can’t dispute that,” he said with a grin before straightening himself and continuing, “but I ain’t here for pleasure.” He turned to Tremblay, “I’m afraid that certain developments have occurred which require your answer sooner than I’d previously suggested. Are you in or are you out?”

  Tremblay hated being put on the spot, especially with the surprisingly elegant looking Bethany looking on with cool indifference. But he also knew that if Lynch had spoken truthfully, the offer was simply too good to pass up. It would provide him with the ability to do everything he had wanted to do since enlisting in the Caprian military—including, possibly, gaining revenge on Jason Montagne.

  “If your offer is as you stated it,” Tremblay said, knowing his next words could very well be the proverbial first steps on the path to damnation, “then I’m in.”

  Lynch grinned broadly and thrust a hand out, “Welcome aboard, Mr. Trembly.”

  “It’s ‘Tremblay’,” he corrected, fighting back the urge to flavor his voice with irritation.

  “That’s what I said,” Lynch smiled, giving a brief but powerful squeeze with his hand before releasing his grip. “And you, my Lady?” he turned to Bethany. “I understand the circumstances are unfortunately abbreviated, but I’m hopin’ you’ll look past the unconventional timing of the situation?”

  Bethany stepped forward, proffering her left hand like some absurd princess in a fairy tale, “I will indeed, though I have a point or two to raise in that regard which would be better discussed in private.”

  “And I assure you,” Lynch accepted her hand with stately grace, bent down to kiss the knuckle of her little finger, and released her hand as he returned to his upright posture, “that we’ll speak on them matters presently. But for now, Mr. Trembly and I have a few things to tend to. If you’ll excuse us?”

  Bethany was clearly disappointed, but her courtly veneer remained fixed in place as she curtsied and replied, “Of course.”

  Lynch clicked his heels, turned about face and made to leave the room. Tremblay decided the wise course was to follow without being asked to do so, so with a final look at the now clearly irritated Princess-cadet, he quickly caught up with the notorious arms dealer and the door to Bethany’s quarters closed behind him.

  “We got a bit of a sitch up ahead that you can cut your teeth on,” Lynch explained as they moved toward the ship’s bridge-slash-living-area-slash-gallery. “What do you know about the Eldred Cooperative?”

  Tremblay was temporarily wrong-footed by the nature of the question, but he regained his composure and began to recite what he knew, “It was established forty years ago after the liquidation of a dozen smaller corporations, the remnants of which came together under a different name. The group quickly gained economic control of a handful of Border Systems located on the edges of Sectors 23 and 24. They changed their name to the Eldred Cooperative after Calvin Eldred, who was the founding CEO and was a native of one of those Border Systems. They’ve got roughly half the economic output of a Core World—“

  “I didn’t need a history lesson, son,” Lynch chided, though with less malice than Tremblay might have otherwise expected. “I’m talkin’ tactical capabilities, political weaknesses, or anything else you might use in a hostile negotiation.”

  “Would this ‘hostile negotiation’ include the potential deployment of military hardware?” Tremblay asked guardedly.

  “Would it be a ‘hostile negotiation’ if the answer was ‘no’?” Lynch asked levelly. “Come on, son; we’re on the clock here.”

  Tremblay’s mind raced as he tried to recall his latest intelligence packet on the Eldred Cooperative. “They don’t have any battleships, but their navy is nonetheless formidable. The last readiness reports I saw showed two Heavy Cruisers, three Light Cruisers, twelve Destroyers and twice as many Corvettes. Roughly half of those assets were reportedly deployed throughout the six Border Systems as SDF’s, while the other half routinely engage in escort duty and security patrols of the neighboring Star Systems.”

  “But we ain’t in the neighboring Star Systems, son,” Lynch said pointedly, “we’re closer to Sector 25 than we are to Sector 23.”

  Tremblay was confused for a moment before realizing this was a test. His mind raced from possibility to possibility before he thought he had correctly surmised the situation, “House Raubach pirated several of their assets while they were out on patrol, and you’ve located those assets.”

  “Good,” Lynch approved as they reached the main compartment of the craft, “and what about the Eldred Cooperative’s leadership?”

  “Their corporate board was previously divided along lines which reflected the original constituent corporations’ interests,” Tremblay recalled, “but those lines blurred as the old members aged off and were replaced by bureaucratic appointments from the Border Worlds comprising the Cooperative’s territory.”

  “Who’s the Chairman?” Lynch asked as they approached the helm, where Anthony Fisher was stationed as usual.

  Tremblay drew a blank for several seconds before finally recalling, “Ndugu Turay was elected just before the Imperial Withdrawal, but it was a contentious election if I remember correctly.”

  “Why was it contentious?” Lynch pressed.

  “It had to do with prioritizing local, System-specific issues above those of Cooperative’s centralized authority,” Tremblay recalled, but he could remember nothing more than that. “The old guard of corporate board members didn’t care for his insistence that local matters take priority over the Cooperative’s central agendas.”

  “Good,” Lynch nodded as he input a series of commands to the station set beside Fisher’s helm console. After a few moments, the workstation sprang to life and Lynch gestured for Tremblay to be seated, “You’ve got two hours before the negotiations.”

  “I’ve got two hours to do what?” Tremblay asked warily.

  “To prep for your meeting with Turay,” Lynch explained, placing a hand on Tremblay’s shoulder and pushing him slowly, but steadily, toward the chair with a vice-like grip. “He’s understandably interested in acquiring information regarding the third of Eldred’s fleet that went missin’ shortly after the Imperial Withdrawal. He has reason to believe that I, or an associate of mine, is in possession of such information and has agreed to a sit-down.”

  Tremblay was uncertain why Lynch would ask him to act as go-between for this particular meeting—a meeting with a man whose relative stature and influence rivaled that of a Core World planetary governor—but he decided it would be wise to avoid pressing the issue. Instead, he asked the obvious question, “Do we actually have information on that fleet’s location?”

  “Good boy,” Lynch said with a lopsided grin and an approving nod. “Yeah, we got it,” he said, tapping out a series of rapid commands on the workstation which brought up a massive log of ship movem
ents which, somehow, looked to have been tracked via the ComStat network, “but givin’ him what he wants is the easy part.”

  Tremblay pursed his lips as the screens began to flood with information, “What is it that we want?”

  Lynch’s grin broadened, “That part’s simple: we want him to agree to forgive House Raubach for any wrongdoing if we assist in the successful recovery of his hardware. We’d also like him to agree to make good on the trade agreements which were in place with House Raubach prior to all the unpleasantness of the past couple years.”

  “Trade agreements?” Tremblay asked in confusion. “What trade agreements?”

  “The details is all in there,” Lynch gestured to the console, “and you’ve got one hour and forty six minutes ‘til we point transfer to the rendezvous. Remember this, though: even if they refuse to reinstate the trade agreements, the absolute minimum we can accept is a full repayment of all outstanding debts owed to House Raubach after we make good on our end of the bargain.”

  Tremblay was as much annoyed as he was worried by the idea that he should conduct some sort of negotiations on behalf of Lynch—or, perhaps more accurately, on behalf of House Raubach!. “I’m not trained for these kind of situations,” the former ‘First Officer’ of the Lucky Clover scowled, “I’m an Intelligence Officer, not a diplomat!”

  “This ain’t government work, son; in the real world you learn on the job or you get eaten by someone who will,” Lynch chided as he turned and made his way back toward the companionway from which they had emerged a few minutes earlier. He called over his shoulder, “Let this be your introduction to life in the private sector: out here, we expect results—and we expect ‘em on a schedule.”

  Before Tremblay could retort, Lynch disappeared into the corridor. The former Intelligence Officer sat at his console in silence for several minutes.

  “Chin up, buttercup,” Fisher, the craft’s pilot, said from Tremblay’s left. He was a medium-short man with dark skin, a thick torso, and a smile that looked like it could win interstellar awards. He then inexplicably added, “After the first fart, the thrill is gone.”