A Bad Deal for the Whole Galaxy

by Alex White

  Her combat spacesuit was hot and itchy, but she wore it out of protocol. She wouldn’t be going out in the Midnight Runner. There wouldn’t be an escort mission.

  Then again, the archives weren’t supposed to be full of shadow monsters. Maybe she’d been right to don her pilot’s suit after all.

  Orna arrived on the bridge with a brisk, “Brio wanted to watch the engine to make sure I did my job hooking up the jump dump.”

  Cordell eyed Boots. “O … kay. Let’s get this show on the road, then. Missus Jan, take us up.”

  “Main drive priming, Captain. Ten seconds to launch.”

  Armin traced his datamancy glyph and placed his palms along the crystal sphere of the aggregator. “Captain, I’m getting a lot of comms chatter about us from STC.”

  “I don’t like this.” The captain sucked his teeth. “We’ve got state-granted emergency departure clearance until anyone says otherwise. Missus Jan, give us launch grav and let’s boogie. Mister Vandevere, connect me to departure.”

  Armin twisted his hands over the sphere, opalescent colors shimmering under his skin. “You’re on, Captain.”

  Cordell cleared his throat. “Aior STC Departure, this is Captain Cordell Lamarr of the Capricious. I’m invoking my unlimited port access privileges, state authorization code two-two-five-alpha-six-niner-four. For classified reasons, we are departing Taitu immediately.”

  A voice came over the speakers like a flat beer: sour and sad. “Departure copies, Capricious, but, ah … we’re going to have to run that code. We’ll need five minutes if you would just—”

  “No,” interrupted Cordell. “I won’t just. We’re leaving now, Departure. Get right with that, or be in violation of the directives of your new prime minister.” He then made the cut motion.

  Armin nodded. “Comms severed, Captain.”

  “They’re stalling,” said Cordell. “Either they want to haul Boots in for assault, or something worse is coming. We stay, we get arrested. Missus Jan, give us a countdown and engines to full.”

  “Ten …” Aisha began, the whine of the Capricious’s maneuvering thrusters resonating through the hull.

  There was a sudden buckling of seat belts across the bridge, and Armin barked into his comm for everyone to strap in. Boots adjusted her own restraints, the fresh launch gravity momentarily swirling her guts.

  “They’re hailing us, Captain,” said Armin.

  “We’ve got thirty seconds to respond,” said Cordell. “I want us clear of the atmos by then.”

  Someone in Space Traffic Control was trying to stall them after all. Boots craned her neck to look out the bridge windows, across the busy starport at the tower. Who was calling into that closed room, ordering them to detain the most decorated heroes of the galaxy? Was it a well-meaning police officer with the local authorities, following up on the assault charge? Was it Agent Weathers, with some new evidence that they were to blame for the attacks at the archives? Was it the newly minted prime minister, sensing the shifting tide of public opinion and willing to orchestrate their fall from grace to curry favor with the masses? How far up the chain did one have to go before they found the invisible hand of Henrick Witts?

  A violent force slammed Boots back into her seat. Aisha had launched before the new gravity could take full effect, pancaking Boots’s squishier parts to the chair.

  “Tell me the path is clear!” grunted Cordell, knuckles tight against his armrests.

  “We have a solid trajectory, Captain,” said Aisha, yawing the ship slightly to adjust course.

  “Let’s hope it’s just observation satellites up there when we break orbit,” said Cordell.

  Boots’s body vibrated into the correct shape as the gravity drive reached full power. Clouds thinned into blue, which grew darker until open space twinkled before them—except one light was a little too large to be a distant star.

  “It’s the TPD Magistrate, Captain,” said Armin. “They’ve got optics on us, and they’re hailing.”

  Cordell leaned forward in his chair, scrutinizing the wide viewport of the bridge as if he could look right into the eyes of the Magistrate’s commander. “So we jump to another jump gate, then jump from there. We’ll be gone before they can catch up.”

  “That’s an interdictor-class vessel, sir,” said Armin. “It’s a jump hunter, designed to run down fleeing ships faster than they can get through the Flow. There are computers on there capable of—”

  “I get it, Mister Vandevere.” Cordell sighed and sat back.

  That was it. They couldn’t jump with a ship that size watching.

  Hitting satellite lenses with a laser blinder was easy money. A shot down the barrel would paralyze them long enough for the jump to take place. Boots didn’t know what kind of countersurveillance Orna had installed, but most jump protection systems could cover ten eyes staring at them. The Magistrate might have hundreds of imagers on them, had probably repurposed their day-to-day docking cameras to watch the jump.

  “They’re still hailing, sir,” said Armin.

  “Put them through,” said Cordell, resignation on his face. He stood, straightening his collar.

  A projection of a gaunt woman in Taitutian commander’s blues spun into existence in the middle of the bridge. “Captain Cordell Lamarr,” she said, inclining her chin. “This is Captain Neith Sadiq of the TPD Magistrate. I’ve been asked to detain you until we can sort out your launch clearances.”

  Cordell smirked. “I remember you, Captain; we met at the Armada Ball last year.”

  “It was my husband’s great honor to shake your hand,” said Sadiq, and she looked like she meant it.

  “I don’t mean to cut short the pleasantries, but we have emergency port access … and somewhere important to be.”

  “About that,” said Sadiq, frown lines creasing her face. “The prime minister is conferring with special council about the status she’s bestowed upon you. There seems to be some concern that your crew has been operating outside the law for too long. It’s unlikely that we’ll permit you to leave.”

  “And if we don’t comply?” asked Cordell.

  “That’s an old ADF warship, Captain, and it’s a long run to the jump gate. I wouldn’t advise taking any actions that would cause us to consider you a threat. Please be patient while we investigate the matter.”

  Boots let out a breath. Of course these clowns were going to arrest them. The crew of the Magistrate were part of the Taitutian system, after all—the system where Henrick Witts had so successfully hidden his crimes, where bureaucrats had worked in the shadows to create the deadly PGRF racetracks.

  “Captain,” said Boots, “permission to speak to Captain Sadiq.”

  At first, Cordell looked at her as though she’d laid an egg. She held his gaze for pregnant seconds, until he had no choice but to answer her.

  “What have you got to say to her?” asked Cordell.

  This was a flagrant violation of rank, and Boots had no right to ask. In wartime, Cordell would’ve flayed her for even thinking the request, but he must’ve softened, because he merely stared daggers at her now.

  Captain Sadiq cocked her head, able to hear Boots, but Boots’s body wasn’t being captured by the lenses on the bridge. Only someone in the captain’s station could be seen on the other side of the transmission.

  “I want to know,” Boots said, speaking loudly enough for the bridge microphones to hear, “if she was commanding the Magistrate on the day we took down Dwight Mandell.”

  “Who’s speaking?” asked Sadiq, looking at Cordell. “I’d like to address this person.”

  After a moment, he gestured her to come up to the captain’s station so she could be captured by the imagers.

  “Better be good,” muttered Cordell.

  “What are they going to do? Double arrest us?” she whispered. “Might as well try.”

  The projection of Captain Sadiq nodded at her. “You’re Boots Elsworth. We heard you’d disappeared—the only hero I didn’t get to t
hank.”

  “That’s a bit dramatic, Captain,” she said, the heat rising in your cheeks. “My duty had ended, and it was time to go home.”

  “But here you are,” she said. “To answer your question: yes, I was the commanding officer of the Magistrate the day you brought the Harrow home.”

  Boots took a deep breath. “I know I don’t need to remind you what happened to your strike team that boarded the Harrow. You may command a few thousand, but twelve deaths are still painful. I’m sure you wonder every day about how that could’ve been prevented.”

  Sadiq gave her a curt nod.

  “They were murdered by a man operating inside the law, because … well … there are no laws capable of governing that amount of power and influence. And now there are people on your homeworld sympathetic to Mandell, people who believe your soldiers weren’t actually killed—they’re crying government conspiracy.” She looked down at her feet, collecting her thoughts. “Look, ma’am, we know you have every right to detain us, just like those bastards have a right to shout at us for killing your old prime minister. Their opinions are protected.”

  Captain Sadiq shifted on her feet. “And your point, Miss Elsworth?”

  “Maybe the problem is: people are confusing what’s legal with what’s right. Laws are predictable; they can be hacked.”

  The projected woman took a sharp breath. She understood the proposition Boots was about to make—insubordination and possibly treason. It’d be a career-ending move for Sadiq.

  “We’ve got a good bead on the rot that’s been infecting your planet. Now, you can do the legal thing and bring us in, let us face these people, and the chips will fall where they may.” Boots chewed her lip for a moment. If she didn’t convince Sadiq, she might be adding to their troubles. “Or … you can do the right thing, shut off your optics, and let us jump out of here without following us.”

  Sadiq smirked. “‘Shut off our optics’? Captain Lamarr, have you got an unregistered jump drive on your vessel?”

  Cordell gave Boots a bug-eyed “what the hell” look. “We’re capable of getting out of here, Captain Sadiq.”

  “You’re high-profile,” said Sadiq. “Even if our government was still infested with conspirators, it’s not as though they could just make you disappear from our custody.”

  Boots cocked an eyebrow. “They made the Harrow disappear, didn’t they, ma’am?”

  Deathly silence fell over the bridge, save for the soft beeping of scanners and proximity alarms. She stared into the eyes of the captain’s projection, hazy and luminous, hardened by decades of making life-or-death decisions for a massive crew. Sadiq looked away.

  “Captain Sadiq, don’t do the legal thing,” said Boots. “Do the right thing.”

  Sadiq worked her lips for a moment, then came to meet Boots’s gaze. She nodded, then looked off toward someone not in her projection.

  “Mister Drake,” Sadiq barked. “Our optical array seems to be malfunctioning. I’m having trouble reading the registration numbers on the Capricious. This is unacceptable. Send a transmission to the Green Palace to confirm our problems.”

  She then turned to look at Cordell. “I’m afraid our optics will be offline for the next five minutes. The Capricious will remain in orbit while we diagnose our troubles.”

  Cordell’s chest swelled and he nodded his assent. Boots lowered her eyes, not wanting to embarrass her commanding officer by gawking. Sadiq winked out.

  “All crew to jump stations,” called Armin. “Missus Jan, lay in a course for Harvest and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Boots rushed to her jump couch at the edge of the bridge and buckled in.

  “Coordinates locked, Captain,” called Aisha.

  “Mister Jan and Miss Brio report jump ready,” called Armin. “The Ferrier twins, as well.”

  Cordell surveyed the crew and smiled. “We’re about to disobey a Taitutian warship in Taitutian space. Not how I pictured my day going. Let’s make it count.”

  The ship whined with the energies of their temporary jump drive.

  “Missus Jan, execute jump.”

  Chapter Six

  Undercover

  Welcome to Harvest!” Cordell stood by the exit to the cargo hold, addressing the fully assembled crew. “Kids, you’re going on a field trip today.”

  Whatever they were doing on that rock, Boots knew it wouldn’t be pleasant.

  In a bygone era, Harvest was an eidolon crystal mining moon, its veins running pink with the universe’s most precious resource. It had been a bulwark of incredible technology and economic development for a huge swath of colonized worlds, and had declared sovereignty at its height, holding its valuable energy source hostage from the rest of the universe.

  Then they’d waged a half-dozen wars, and the eidolon ran out. Harvest faded to a backwater world, slowly burning its wick down into obsolescence. With the loss of its heavy industries, Harvest’s power vacuum was filled by gangsters and thieves. It was possible for a crew to hide out there, to trade secrets or contraband in its serpentine tunnels, to buy powerful weapons from the many shady arms dealers living in its depths.

  Boots guessed her captain was planning on all of the above.

  “You are to report to the address provided to your comms,” called Armin. “Miss Sokol has a chit with ten thousand argents for each member of the away team. You will protect her at all costs, and you will not engage with any of the local citizenry. Do not remove your rebreathers for any reason. Avoid all imagers and optics.”

  “May I ask what we’re doing, sir?” said Boots.

  “No,” said Armin, then he gave her a thin smile. “You will all follow Miss Sokol’s orders until you return to the ship.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Boots.

  “Mister Vandevere, Missus Jan, and I will remain here,” said Cordell, taking his place by Armin and Aisha, “to oversee the alterations to the Capricious’s external geometry, as well as his paint and registration. I look forward to seeing you all again. Good luck out there.”

  “Let’s go, folks!” shouted Orna, slamming the cargo ramp control. Everyone pulled up their rebreathers as the hissing whine filled the hold.

  The dock they’d chosen was deep inside one of Harvest’s gaping mine shafts, obscured from the outside world by a hard-shelled warehouse designed to store exotic sport fliers. The folks waiting outside the ship looked like the sort of gawky mechanists that’d strip anything down to a metal skeleton in seconds.

  Charger clanked up beside Boots, sampling the new air flooding into the Capricious. Boots looked up at his bloodred carapace and knit her eyebrows together. Charger’s lenses snapped onto her.

  “Uh …” said Boots.

  “What?” Orna called out from the base of the ramp.

  Boots patted her bulky clothes. They were all dressed like maintenance techs in heavy protective gear, scuffed duraplast plates covering most of their bodies. Their rebreathers left only the tops of their heads visible, mops of hair sticking out around the headband. Even Nilah, one of the most famous women in the universe, was completely unrecognizable, save for the long mohawk.

  “Your bot is kind of famous,” said Boots. “Maybe you should leave him here?”

  Charger’s limbs curled inward, recoiling. She’d somehow hurt the bot’s feelings.

  Orna turned to Cordell. “Captain, thoughts?”

  “Miss Elsworth is right. Can you have him patrol the dock?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, with some disappointment. “My tool chests are locked. Could you make sure he stays out of them?”

  “Miss Sokol,” said Armin with a scowl. “Your captain is not in the habit of babysitting your creations.”

  Orna flushed around her rebreather, the scars on her forehead going stark white as she stiffened. “Yes, sir!” Then she turned to Boots and the others. “I said let’s go, punks!”

  As the cargo ramp closed behind them, Boots could swear she saw the bot wave goodbye.

  The away
team turned toward the assemblage of Harvest mechanics that had gathered outside the Capricious, a motley crew if ever Boots had seen one. She restrained a sigh; this was a harebrained scheme. The second they left, these bastards would be on the horn to the Taitutian authorities, giving away their location.

  The closest one slapped a hand to his heart, the symbol of Arcan allegiance. “Sixty-eighth Infantry,” he said. Boots knew the unit. They’d been wiped out in the Battle of Carmine Fjord.

  “ADF Sparrow,” said a woman. That ship had been rendered asunder in the last stand. How she’d survived was beyond Boots.

  “Capitol Criers,” said a third, referring to an insurgency group that had moved into the hole where the Arcan capitol had once been, a symbol of their resistance.

  Each man or woman in the bay was a die-hard member of the Arcan military, or a paramilitary adjunct. They’d lost everything in the last days of the Famine War. Some of them would be wanted for war crimes—sedition against the occupying forces, terrorism, and worse.

  These were Boots’s orphaned siblings, and she understood perfectly why Cordell had chosen this particular hole in the wall to resupply.

  “Okay, enough gabbling,” said Orna. “Everyone on me. We’re out of here.”

  Beyond the docks, the streets of Harvest were a maze of bright lights and dazzling projections. Every pleasure of the flesh clotted their vision, swarming the crew, pressing in upon them.

  Except Boots.

  The majority of the drugs and magic available worked on the cardioid, something that Boots lacked, so very few temptations beckoned her, save for a shot of whiskey and a roll in the hay. Malik continued along with his classic stoicism—he had a knack for frustratingly clean living. Nilah, by contrast, pointed to each attraction in turn, noting for Orna the ones she’d done, the ones she’d shunned, and the ones she still had planned. The Ferrier twins were positively overcome, their eyes at once betraying exhilaration and disgust.